Refuge
by Woomie
Summary: A young Clint Barton is hiding from trouble...and is found by someone unexpected. One of five mild whumps centered on Hawkeye. No pairings, mild violence and language. My first time sharing any fiction writing!
1. Refuge

London, England, Hackney region

17-year-old Kurt Van Dyke, formally known as Clint Barton, slipped through the Haywood Hotel door like water, checking out the familiar surroundings out of habit. All was quiet. Old Bert wasn't even behind the desk. Kurt climbed the stairs two at a time, carefully avoiding the two really creaky ones that would have alerted the crazy old lady in 201 to his arrival. If she heard you, she'd come to her door, hair standing on end, and wave her cane around trying to smack down the intruder. She stood all of 4'11" tall and her eyes were filmed with cataracts, but when she landed a blow, you knew it.

Kurt breezed up to the fifth floor, on which only his room and one other were occupied. He remembered when he'd stumbled into the dilapidated lobby for the first time. He was on the run, and hungry and so, so very tired. He could procure food, but finding a safe place to sleep had proved elusive.

Bert had hardly looked up from his Sudoku puzzle. He perched on a sagging wooden chair and wore a green vest like he did every single day. "You Kurt?" he asked, scratching the sparse white hair on the top of his head.

"Yeah," said Clint on instinct.

"Yer two days late," grumbled the older man. He shoved a paper across the scarred surface of the desk. "Sign there, and there, and there. Got any ID?"

Clint carefully signed Kurt S. Van Dyke everywhere he was told and shook his head sadly about an ID. He had been on his own, on the run, for almost 5 months now, but he still didn't have the money to get a good ID, and so far, he wasn't quite desperate enough to do anything crazy to earn that money.

"Alright. You been in a subsidized hotel before?" Clint just nodded this time, knowing from experience that his accent would give him away as American immediately. He spent his days practicing under his breath, but he had a long ways to go to sound like a Londoner.

Bert grunted again. "I'm Old Bert. If you need anything, don't ask. Don't bust up the place, don't bother the other residents. Looks like you have 28 days left." He scrutinized Clint, screwing his mouth up in thought. "Whatever it is you're hiding from, don't bring it here, and we won't ask." He banged a large, old-fashioned key on the desk along with a few more papers. "You're in 507 cuz you look like you can handle stairs. 506 is the only other one occupied cuz the floors is damaged." He turned back to his puzzle.

Clint – now Kurt – took the papers and key and made his way up the rickety stairs. After each flight, you had to traverse the length of the short hallway to get to the next flight, and Kurt had encountered the lady in 201. Although Bert must be able to hear her shrieking downstairs, he didn't call out or come up, and Kurt was beginning the realize he'd meant it – keep to yourself and we'll do the same.

His room was on the top floor, one large area with a moldy refrigerator, tiny counter space, one decent chair, a 3-legged stool and a bed that was more like a cot. Everything was dusty, but it was quiet and dry and off the streets. Better still, the papers he'd been handed had some food vouchers attached.

He spent his mornings sleeping and his nights scouting and learning the city. In the afternoons, he practiced his accent, tracked down food, and worked on his plans for where he would go next. He didn't see many others around the hotel, and no one paid him any attention, besides 201. About a week after he'd moved in, he met a 20-something woman on the stairs. He could tell she wasn't staying – her clothes were too modern, cheeks too full, and the headphones she was wearing would have paid for too many meals to belong to anyone at the Haywood. She ignored him completely and sped past. Kurt shrugged mentally and continued.

On the fifth floor, room 506's door was open and a skeletal man was calling after the oblivious woman. "You're supposed to put them away! The hell can I do with them on the floor? I told you I was coming!" He stopped hollering to cough, a deep, painful-sounding cough that had Kurt wincing in sympathy.

Kurt could see grocery bags on the floor in front of the man's room, one tipped over and an apple rolling out of it. The man himself was maybe six feet tall, but 40 pounds underweight. His eyes put him at 30, but his skin was stretched over his bones too tightly and he clutched the handle of a rolling oxygen tank behind him. Kurt felt like he could see right through him. He grabbed the apple that had rolled away and held it out to his neighbor.

"Step back and I'll bring the bags inside. I don't want to be tripping over them when I'm in and out." His words surprised himself. He knew he shouldn't make connections, and he had a feeling his neighbor didn't accept help easily, but he also knew there was no way the sickly man could carry in the groceries. To his further surprise, the man nodded and turned back to go inside.

His room was a mirror of Kurt's, but the furniture was sturdy and there was a lot more of it. It was a lot cleaner too. Kurt set down the first bags and reached to move the oxygen tank out of his way, but the other man grumbled, "No, don't roll it across the hard floor. Keep in on the carpet because I can't stand the noise. Kurt nodded and rolled the tank away from the kitchen and followed the other man into the living and sleeping area. Then he brought the other groceries in and quickly put the small amount of food away.

"I'm gonna –"

"Thanks." The word was so quiet Kurt hardly heard it. "And take the apples. I can't even chew them, and they keep sending them." Fresh fruit was such a luxury, Kurt almost didn't take him up on it, but he couldn't resist.

After that, he'd often time his arrival home with the arrival of Ty's weekly grocery delivery, and Ty would invite him in. Conversation was mostly Kurt telling his neighbor the state of the city – they never covered anything remotely personal. And Kurt always went home with a bag full of apples that he would eat up within two or three days. He knew he was losing muscle mass as food was a crap shoot and he had nowhere to train.

One morning, Kurt came back with a shallow but painful knife wound on one forearm, and Ty happened to come to the door when he was going past. He didn't comment, but indicated with his head that Kurt should come in.

It was a good choice, as Ty actually had clean gauze that he could wrap it in. "Keep that clean, man," said Ty when Kurt had finished wrapping it all up. The former was even paler than normal. "You do not want to go to hospital." He was so vehement Kurt looked at him in surprise.

He'd never been to a hospital, as the circus had its own medic who patched up anyone who got hurt.

"No kidding. Who can afford that?" he smirked.

"No, man, no hospitals." Ty's clawlike hand clutched his own knee and he leaned forward in agitation. "What do you think happened to me? I was in the army. Strong, healthy. Went into hospital with a little infection and they screwed it all up. Experimental treatment for my asthma and they killed me man. Look at me. They killed me." He panted for a minute, and Kurt opened and closed his mouth a few times, at a total loss. "They give you medicine to sleep when you're in hospital and they do whatever the hell they want. Why do you think I get everything free? They want me to shut up until I die. Hell, they want me to stay in hospital, but I refuse to die there so I get all my groceries and this dump and I just have to shut it so I can die in peace."

Kurt contemplated his neighbor's words. His eyes roamed the man's ruined body. "That's messed up, man."

Ty grinned a rictus smile. "But I'm on the fifth floor just to give them the mickey. They hate coming here, hate that I'm still alive, and their delivery people hate all of the stairs."

"But –" But you're stuck then, Kurt almost said. You can't leave and you'll die here. He couldn't say that, so instead he finished with, "what if you need something?"

Ty laughed his wheezing laugh. "I'll throw crap at the wall until you come check on me. You sleep all day anyway, you lazy slug. What are you, a gigolo? If so, you must be crap at it that you have to live here." He laughed again and Kurt was relieved to see the man's spirits lift.

"Nah, I…I used to be in the circus." Yeah, until he got forcibly recruited into the other side of the business. Until Jaques hauled him along on a job and told him they were stealing from a drug dealer. Until they'd stuck a gun in his hand and he had mindlessly put a bullet between the eyes of the man they were robbing. Until they had realized his gifts made him a perfect assassin-for-hire and they had ruthlessly forced him to fulfill death contracts, holding Barney hostage in exchange for his cooperation. Until they dragged him to Germany for a half-million-dollar contract but he overheard them talking with Barney and laughing at what a moron he was to believe that Barney wasn't up to his eyeballs in their special side business. And until he had ditched them in Bonn a few months before, knowing he'd be running from them for the rest of his life.

"No kidding? What did you do?"

Kurt pulled himself back to the present and grinned. "Trick shots." He waved the apple core he was holding. "I can bounce this off the ceiling fan, off that wall, and into the trash can in the kitchen."

"Bull."

Smirking, Kurt did just what he'd said, and did a seated half bow when Ty cheered.

"What else?"

"I can shoot anything. Guns, of course, but you should see me with a bow and arrow." The smile slipped from his face. "I'll show you some time, but I gotta go now. You need anything?"

"Nah, man, I'm good." Ty suddenly looked a little awkward, like he didn't know how to act since they'd shared more about themselves, and Kurt ducked out quickly.

That had been two weeks before, and Kurt knew Ty's groceries were due again tomorrow. Thinking about the conversation they'd had made him think of his bow. Since he was restless anyway, he took it out of his backpack and carefully fitted all of the pieces together. It was too big and obvious to carry around the city put together, and he had yet to find a place where he could safely practice. And, odd as it seemed, he missed it. He missed all of his training and the routine of it, but most of all he missed the rhythm of firing his bow over and over. Draw, nock, breathe, release, bullseye. Repeat.

Though he couldn't use it, he strung his bow and carefully wiped it all down, then inspected his arrows. He forced himself to be thorough despite his growing edginess. He couldn't put his finger on why he was so unsettled.

From Ty's room he heard a long screech as the oxygen tank was dragged across the yellow linoleum. Kurt's head snapped up. Ty would never, ever allow the tank to be pulled across the hard floor because the sound hurt his ears. Was he asking for help or… More details slotted together in Kurt's mind. Bert was absent. Heck, the entire hotel was silent. And for the last few nights, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. Someone knew where he was and was clearing out the hotel to get to him, and he had a feeling that Ty was trying to warn him.

Taking two deep breaths like he was about to step into the center ring, he stood fluidly and went over his escape plan in his mind. He propped his pathetic chair in front of the door even though it would only gain him a couple of seconds. Scooping up his backpack, he couldn't resist throwing the rest of the apples in there. Moving silently, he opened his tiny closet and squeezed through the gap he'd long ago pried in the thin wood so he could get through. Carefully pushing the wood back into place, he stepped into the next room with the wet, squishy floor. He put his quiver on his back and his only knife in his belt and stepped out onto the fire escape.

Per the plan he'd created weeks before, he went up instead of down and sprinted diagonally across the roof, where it was an easy jump to the next one. His heart was pounding like a freight train, but everything was going to plan. The next jump was a little longer, but it went well and he hadn't heard anything to indicate that he'd been seen. It should have been just one more rooftop to freedom, but as he landed on the third one, his right foot slid sideways on the loose stone and his knee twisted and buckled beneath him. He let out a wordless cry as his hands slammed into the roof and he slid a couple feet. He knew it was bad before he tried to stand. It was the knee that just wouldn't get all the way better, the knee he'd messed up way back when he was 8 or 9 and learning the trapeze.

Desperate, he crawled across the roof dragging the useless leg behind him. He had to be able to run! He descended the fire escape by sliding his hands down the rails and using his left foot to direct his progress. But it was way too slow and loud. As Clint came to the final landing, still maybe 8 feet up, he saw a man in a suit standing at the end of the alleyway, and he was turning toward the noise.

Feeling like everything was moving in slow motion, Clint drew an arrow and nocked it, drawing a bead on the man, who was reaching into his coat pocket. God, no, he didn't want to kill again. He couldn't live this way.

"Stop!" he called, and his voice was gravel. "Stop, or I'll shoot you! I swear I'll shoot you." His voice dropped to almost inaudible. "And I don't want to."

The man didn't listen. Why didn't he listen? He pulled his gun, but Clint couldn't kill him.

He turned the bow and shot the gun out of the man's hand and drew another arrow in the time of a thought. "Please stop," he begged, as the man reached for something at his waistband. Before he could complete the motion, something moving way too fast slammed into his back and the world flipped.

"Breathe, kid, you just got the wind knocked out of you," said a voice. Clint sucked in precious air, his hands on his chest like that would help him recover faster. His vision came back on line and he could see another man in a suit was at his side on one knee. He patted the comically large gun at his side. "It was just a beanbag, though the fall didn't do you any favors either."

Clint sucked in a few more breaths and finally felt like his body was his own again. He pondered his options for a moment. "Who are you?"

The man calmly plucked the knife from Clint's belt and tossed it to someone out of Clint's sight. "I'm Phil Coulson, Mr. Barton," he said. "May I call you Clint? I came to hunt down a ruthless assassin, and instead I heard the voice of a teenager. A teenager who didn't want to kill my associate." He gave a practiced bland smile, and Clint had the sudden impression that this man was far more dangerous than he appeared. "I think we should have a conversation, somewhere more," he glanced pointedly around the dirty alley, "more amenable to pleasant conversation. Let's get you on your feet."

"Is Ty okay?" Clint asked first.

"Who?"

"My neighbor. You made him leave, right?"

"Certainly. He's unharmed and we compensated him for his trouble. You know, he swore the room next to his was vacant." Coulson's eyes turned speculative. He stood and held out a hand. After a long moment, Clint decided he'd rather not continue lying on the ground, and he took it and allowed himself to be pulled up. His knee took that opportunity to remind him that it wasn't up for taking any weight at all, and he gave an involuntary cry, steadying himself against wall of the building. Phil had grabbed his elbow. "Hmmm, looks like a side trip to medical first."

"NO!" Clint ignored the fact that all three of the other suited men around him had reacted to his shout by dropping a hand to a weapon. "No, no hospital. It's fine. I've twisted it before."

They were face-to-face now, as Phil hadn't let go of his elbow, and they were of a height. He studied the teen for a long moment: the pale face, the sunken cheeks indicating recent weight loss, and the terrified gray eyes. He knew for a fact that Clint Barton had killed at least 14 people in the last 2 years, but that didn't match the reality in front of him. "Show me the leg," he insisted.

Clint obeyed reflexively, pulling his arm free and trying to work his pant leg up over his knee. The knee was so swollen he couldn't make it. Coulson shook his head. "You've got to get it looked at. Might be surgery, but I can assure you that you'll get good care and it will be paid for."

Clint grabbed Phil's forearm, again frightening the other agents. "No, no hospitals, please." He was begging now and he didn't care. He kept seeing Ty's skeletal visage. "Please?" it was hardly a whisper.

"Sir, we have to go now," said one of the suits.

Phil sighed. "Kid, I'll make you a deal. You come peacefully and tell me what I need to know and I swear you'll never be alone at the hospital. I will be there the entire time, or someone I trust if I can't be. Okay?"

Clint couldn't see a way out. He certainly couldn't run from these men with his knee the way it was. And while trust didn't come easily to him, there was something about Phil Coulson that made him think this was someone who kept his word. He nodded tersely, and Phil pulled an arm over his own shoulders to help Clint limp out of the alley. A second man tried to do the same thing on the other side, but Clint flinched away and Phil directed the man to go behind them with a tilt of his head.

Clint learned a bunch of things over the next two weeks that would have a major impact on his life going forward. First, he hated hospitals every bit as much as he'd expected to. Second, when Phil gave his word, he kept it. Third, the condition of his knee was fixable with the first good health care he'd had his entire life. Fourth, there was an entity by the name of SHIELD that could use of man of his particular talents…


	2. Sentry

Istanbul, western side, region known as "the edge", takes place early in Clint Barton's SHIELD career

Nick Fury scanned his surroundings incessantly. Even surrounded by agents hand-picked by the newest director of SHIELD, he felt very vulnerable and exposed walking through the dusty streets. There was no doubt that the city was beautiful, but he would have felt far more comfortable observing it from the shadows. Instead, Director Dirk Kotman, two months into his tenure, was traveling the world like a diplomat. He walked surrounded by men in suits, and they could hardly be mistaken for businessmen. Fury trailed behind the group, trying to see any possible threats before they could become a problem, but feeling like the rest of his companions were far too comfortable walking through the city.

Fury caught a sudden whisp of movement from a rooftop and heard a soft hiss. Even as he twitched toward the director, a body fell from a different roof across the road and maybe five buildings ahead. All of the other agents had their guns out and pointed at the roof where he'd first seen motion. The director hadn't even drawn his weapon and Fury's scowl deepened.

One agent called out, "we're coming up for you. Drop your weapons," and four more moved to surround the building. Nobody was actually looking at the body that had fallen, so Fury checked that out instead, muttering about how no one was actually watching for other threats and how they were all going to be killed if someone didn't start using their brain and how only an effing moron would call out like that.

The body, because the man was dead, had the skin tone of a native and a high-powered sniper rifle next to him. And there was an arrow through his chest. Fury knew exactly who he'd seen on the first roof.

"I hate this whole set up," Fury had growled a week before. "The director is going to get his entire team killed."

"You may be right," Phil Coulson had replied in his customarily calm way. "I have a contingent plan for you."

Since Phil was the person Fury trusted more than any other on the planet, he had accepted him at his word. As he was remembering, two agents ushered the contingency plan, one Clint Barton, out of the building across the way in handcuffs. Fury sighed but didn't interfere. He had to clench his teeth when the director began to interrogate Barton in the middle of the street.

"Excuse me, sir," interrupted Fury, the effort to stay polite making his teeth ache. "Maybe we should take this inside since we've already seen at least one threat." He looked pointedly at the dead man at his feet.

Kotman waited a long moment before answering, a typical power play for him, but Fury didn't squirm. "You may be right, Nicolas." He waved the agents flanking Barton forward. "Let's get to our destination and continue there." They filed in behind the director, and Fury managed to not shoot the bastard. Just.

The building they had commandeered was ubiquitous in the city – low ceiling, stone walls, dimly lit and cool despite the heat outside. The main floor had one large room in the front with smaller rooms to the back, and the two higher floors extended slightly beyond the main one in the front.

When Fury walked in, after doing a thorough inspection of the area outside, two agents were holding onto Clint's arms like he was a dangerous prisoner, and the man was still cuffed. The director was standing right in his personal space, looking down from his 6'2". Kotman always reminded Fury of a weatherman with his cleft chin and blonde good looks. He was attractive but as bland as dry toast. "You still haven't told me exactly what you were doing on that roof, Agent Barton," he was saying.

"I have been assigned to watch the Aksoy Family, sir," Clint responded, apparently unruffled by his boss' ire. "There are rumors that they are now trading high powered weapons and dealing with certain terrorist factions."

"So you've said. But why were you on that particular roof at that particular time? Why did you shoot the other man? Is he part of your assignment?"

"No, sir. I wanted to provide additional cover for your team as I have trained as a sniper. When the hostile pointed his weapon at your group, I fired before he could."

Kotman's scowl deepened even farther. "And how did you know I would even be here?"

"I do not recall where I heard that information. Sir." Clint didn't bat an eyelash as he lied in the other man's face, and Fury knew he'd die before giving up Coulson's name.

"Do you like your job, Barton?" Kotman lowered his voice and looked pleased when the younger man flinched at the loss of title.

"I am good at my job, sir." Fury was mildly impressed at Clint's composure. "Yes, I would like to stay doing it."

"Then maybe your memory had better improve. Firing a weapon," he sneered, "any weapon, no matter how inane, near your director is a not something to be taken lightly or because you felt like it was a good idea. I'm going to let you think through your decisions. We'll talk again soon."

"Yes sir."

"There's a holding cell below. Stick him there for a while." As he had the man who'd probably saved his life lead away, Kotman turned to Fury. "You got something to say?"

Fury held up empty hands. "No, sir."

Clint leaned back against the wall of his cell. For whatever weird reason, the basement of the Turkish style house had an actual cell in it, with bars on three sides and a stone wall on the fourth. It wasn't so bad though. There was a low pile carpet on the floor, and daylight windows let in light, giving the impression that it was just a regular basement.

The door opened and Clint managed not to flinch. He hadn't really expected to find himself in a cell for protecting their director, but he had learned way too young that life didn't follow the paths you thought it would. He was surprised to see that his visitor was Nick Fury.

He stood up quickly despite the bound hands, but Fury waved him back down and sat on the floor opposite. "Don't stand up on my account, kid. I'm not actually here." Clint sank back down and his eyes turned speculative. "A mutual friend of ours knew I was concerned about security on this trip and mentioned he had a contingency plan. I didn't ask any details, but I have a feeling his plan worked. In fact, I think that plan could continue to work. Well," he levered himself to his feet. "I think maybe I'll have a discussion with the director. In the front room." As he got up, he dropped something on the floor and it bounced into the cell. "Oops," he deadpanned without looking back.

Clint scrambled over and found a straight pin. With a grin, he picked his handcuffs and the ancient lock on the cell door. His grin widened when he saw what else Fury had left behind – his bow, quiver, and a little something extra. In no time at all, he had pried a window open and was out on the street.

By the time Kotman deigned to come down to the basement, the cell was hanging open and Clint was long gone. He was incandescent with rage and not one of his sycophants had a single thing to say to calm him down. "Who was watching him?!" he sputtered, but nobody would meet his eyes.

You can't surround yourself with idiots then be surprised by their idiocy, Fury thought with amusement.

"Agent Barton is extremely literal," said Fury after a moment. "Did you tell him to stay here? He may have gone back to his post if he felt he could be helpful."

"I would have thought that putting in handcuffs and in a cell would have made that clear," seethed the director and Fury was enjoying himself way too much.

"He's probably on a roof nearby still watching your six. Unless the men posted outside saw him leave and apprehended him?"

Kotman sent two of the suits out to check and paced around, obviously agitated while his yesmen and Fury watched, the former nervously, the latter dispassionately. He ranted for a while after hearing that Barton had apparently disappeared entirely, but he finally calmed down enough to order food be brought in and to start a war counsel of sorts in a second story room set up for that purpose. Even though sources indicated that man Clint had shot down was affiliated with the very family the former was watching, Kotman still intended to meet with them.

"There are layers to every situation," he'd said solemnly, and the morons around him nodded like he was imparting great wisdom. "We have to go forward. If they did send an assassin, we can't act afraid. But it's just as likely that someone is trying to set them up and disrupt this meeting." He unrolled a large paper map with markings all over it. "This is where we're meeting. Devon has been scouting most of the day, and here are the places we'll be stationing people."

"Who chose the location, Director?" asked Fury neutrally. Internally, he was thinking having a sniper who had been in the area for a while might have been a great asset, if they hadn't locked him up.

Kotman didn't answer, which was an answer in itself. "I believe that they are working with some unsavory groups, but that they can be swayed into double-crossing their allies and getting us some valuable intel. With that in mind, I do not want them scared off. Stay back unless I give the signal."

"I'd like permission to observe your negotiations, Director," said Fury. "I'd like a chance to learn from your technique." If he had to pretend to be nice to this jackass much longer, he was going to develop an ulcer.

Kotman looked surprised but gratified. "All right. I'd like to see you in action too." He continued his briefing, still giving his men far more information than they needed and not taking input from anyone else. At last, they had a time and a place, and Fury could excuse himself. Claiming he would be learning the city and watching for Agent Barton, he left to check into another hotel entirely. He'd had all of the idiocy that he could take for one night.

The next day was a series of meetings with various factions in the city, and Kotman used far less discretion than Fury could believe of a SHIELD director. He wondered what Peggy Carter thought of the man and the thought made him smile. He'd pay a lot to see Kotman try to intimidate her. From time to time, Fury would just catch sight of a shadow on the roof and he knew that Barton did, indeed, still have their six. Twice, different people in the city warned them that there was someone in the city who watched from the roofs but nobody could catch him. And that did make Fury smile, especially when it made Kotman grind his teeth. Yes, he should have known Coulson would find a way to have his back, even halfway across the world.

Their meeting was to be held that night. Kotman finally did something right and insisted with his contacts that they change the venue. Of course, he also sent two of his flunkeys to bring in Barton, saying they couldn't have him risking the op. When they failed, Fury waited until nobody was looking at him, then saluted in the direction he'd last seen the archer.

Finally, it was time for the big meet, and yes, it was with the same Askoy family that a trained SHIELD agent had been monitoring for several weeks. And no, they didn't get his input in the slightest. As a sign of mutual trust, Kotman and his contact had both agreed to leave all of their extra support on the first floor of the building where they were meeting, though Fury was coming along with Kotman.

The building was a villa closed for the offseason, made of adobe-style stone. It was slightly isolated, with the buildings nearby beyond a large landscaped area and elaborate fountain with garish statues of water sprites or some similar weirdness. The top floor had a completely open floor plan and floor to ceiling windows so guests could literally sunbathe inside. All the lounge chairs were pushed to the side and the long side bar was empty with stools stacked behind it. The crisscrossing shadows from the window frames made Fury feel like they were on the wrong end of a shooting range.

As a rotund man in traditional off-white thaub came forward to greet the two Americans, and Barton's voice spoke softly in Fury's ear, through the comm he'd left behind with the man's bow and quiver.

"Sir, that is not one of the major players in the family. He's a nobody. I think…he's a decoy. You have to get out of there!"

As Fury reached for the director's arm to pull him back from the other man, who was sweating profusely, the latter smiled. "I enjoy Western literature more than I should," he said in excellent English. "Have you read A Tale of Two Cities? It is a far, far better thing that I do –"

Several things happened in rapid succession. First, Fury recognized the quote as the words of a man about to sacrifice his life. Second, the man speaking fell dead with an arrow through his throat. Third, a dark form crashed through the window and into Fury, knocking him all the way across the spacious room. And fourth, the building exploded.

breakbreakbreakbreak

Fury knew nothing but dust, darkness, and pain. He couldn't stop coughing and the pain from it almost made him black out. He pulled his shirt over his mouth and tried to regulate his breathing and take stock of his situation. He couldn't see a thing, but he could feel pain in his ribs and right ankle, and he thought blood might be trickling down his face. He was leaning against something very hard and bumpy and there was a warm weight across his legs.

"Sir?" There was a chesty cough. "Sir, how hurt are you?" Another cough.

"Barton?"

"Yes, sir."

"What the hell happened?"

"Uh, I spotted a trigger in that guy's hand so I shot him and used a grappling arrow to make a zipline to tackle you."

Fury sighed, then coughed again. "You should have saved the director."

"With all due respect sir, Phil told me to watch your back, not the director's."

Fury thought that Phil really should be the kid's handler, but put that thought aside to deal with later. "Well, if we get out of here, you better call me Fury."

"Okay. I'm going to try to get up off your legs now. Are you badly hurt?"

Fury considered it. "My right ankle. And possibly my ribs." He could hear the wince in Clint's voice.

"Uh, sorry about the ribs. That's my fault."

Fury laughed and immediately regretted it. "I think saving my life makes up for that Barton." He broke off with groan when the agent moved and pain shot through his leg. The rubble around them shifted and debris hissed down, making space for a small bit of sky to appear.

"Sorry again." Clint sighed now. Fury could make him out too, at least vaguely, as a dark shape hunched over. "Okay, uh, sir. If I, uh…"

He trailed off, causing Fury to ask sharply, "How badly are you injured, Barton?"

The dark figure waved a hand. "Not hurt, sir."

"Do. Not. Lie. To. Me."

Clint blinked. Even injured and weak, Fury was one scary dude. "Okay, sorry. Um. I don't feel hurt, but things are kind of fuzzy. I'm g-good though." He thought about how much Phil respected this man. "I'll give you the same promise I gave Phil. I won't ever lie to you again. I m-may not tell you everything, but I w-won't lie."

"Good enough," said Fury. "Now, if I were going to blow some people up, I'd have a clean up team handy to make sure that everyone got blown up properly. Which means, it's time to get the hell out of here."

"That's what – that's –" Clint trailed off again and shook his head. The rubble shifted allowing more light to filter in. Fury painfully dragged himself into the beam.

"Come here, Barton." Clint crawled over and Fury took hold of his chin to pull his face into the light. The entire right side of his face was covered in blood and his right pupil was far smaller than his left. A bad concussion, then. Fury mentally moved their odds of survival a little lower. "Okay. I need you to get my gun off my left ankle and my knife off my right calf. Do you have any weapons on you?" He kept his instructions simple hoping the agent could stick with him.

"Yes. Yes, sir." He retrieved the weapons and handed them to Fury, then pulled a gun from his own belt. "Coupla knives too. Lishen – listen, I need to get you out of here before I pass out. Phil said..um…"

Fury wasn't known for being warm and cuddly, so he turned to what he knew. He would give simple, terse commands the other man could follow. "Barton, help me to my feet. On my right side." They couldn't quite stand upright. When Fury was balanced and no longer felt like he was going to puke from the pain, he directed, "Now see if you can climb out of that hole above us." Clint nodded dumbly and started.

"Keep your weapon out and your eyes open," said Fury. Clint just nodded again and scrambled out. He disappeared for a long, tense moment, then his face came through the hole.

"They're loo-looking," he whispered. "But they didn't see me. I can, uh, I can, uh," he paused, frustrated. "I can take them out while you stay here."

"Better get me out of here first," grumbled Fury, not certain the other agent could even see straight any more.

"You m-might be safer –"

"That's an order, agent." Getting Fury out was every bit as agonizing as he'd expected, but he hardly made any noise as Barton basically lifted him up and out of the hole. Finally, he found himself in the middle of piles and piles of rubble under the night sky. He whited out for a few moments, and when he came back to himself, he was sitting with his legs stretched out in from of him leaning against a bit of wall that was still standing. His gun was on his lap and Clint was crouched next to him facing the opposite direction, one hand on his shoulder and the other hand holding a gun of his own.

Despite his pain, Fury took a moment to appreciate that at least there was one agent who knew how to do his job.

Clint must have felt Fury stirring, because he glanced down. "S-sir, do you think you can move? There is an access to the sewers ab-about 20 meters south and…and…" he scowled. "And I n-need…safe…"

"We're quite a pair," muttered Fury. "Let's get to the sewers then we'll figure out a way to call for help. Both my comms are dead." When Clint didn't move, Fury said, "Get me on my feet and watch my six."

Later, Fury would remember that walk as one of the most difficult things he'd ever done. His right leg was completely unable to bear any weight, and even the swinging of his foot cause immense pain. Clint supported the taller man as much as he could but had to keep one hand free to watch for hostiles. They couldn't even make a direct route but had to stay in the shadows and against piles of rubble as much as possible. They could now hear men talking nearby, but they didn't dare check who it was. There was, worryingly, no sign yet of the Turkish police.

Fortunately, Clint was spot on with the location of the grate, and it opened easily. Even better, the tunnel was dry, though it still stank. "I c-can lower you, b-but…"

"But I'll have to stand on my own until you get down there. I know. Do it." Fury passed out briefly again and again came to with Barton having again sat him against a wall and standing guard.

"I'm g-get ph-phone," he stuttered and was gone before Fury could protest.

"Dammit, kid," he whispered. "Don't you go and die on me or Phil will be pissed." Fury briefly wondered what would happen to him if the kid did get himself killed, but that wasn't productive, so instead he planned out who he would back as the new director if – when – they got back.

After far too long, Barton appeared again. He was noticeably shaking, but he handed Fury a cell phone. "Hossels dead," he slurred, going down to one knee. His shoulders slumped. "Agen's all dead too."

"Good job, kid. You did everything you could." Fury made a quick call, thanking his lucky stars and Phil Coulson and anyone else that he got service in that hole. "We'll have pick up in 30 minutes, kid. You can stand down now." He probably shouldn't call a fully vetted agent kid, but the confusion made Barton seem even younger than his 21 years.

"No' ye'." He crouched at Fury's side one more time, right hand on Fury's shoulder and right shoulder leaning against the wall, left hand holding his gun, resting against his knee and facing the grate. Twice Clint slumped and the gun slipped momentarily, but no matter what Fury said, he refused to relax.

After what felt like hours, a voice called from outside the grate, "Acting Director Fury, Agent Barton, are you in there?"

"Name and ID number," growled Fury, ignoring his promotion. He recognized both and finally, finally could relax.

Two agents who also had medical training squeezed into the smelly tunnel. Barton could barely talk, but he insisted, "F-fury f-first."

"Fine, but then you STAND DOWN and get medical treatment. You understand me, agent?"

"Yessir."

Fury and Barton were literally lifted out of the sewer and loaded efficiently onto a SHIELD plane, where they were given blessed pain medication and basic medical care. Fury overheard the medics reveal that Barton had a small stab wound in addition to abrasions, contusions, and a significant head wound. Fury rolled his eye. Stubborn. He confirmed that Clint, now unconscious, was expected to have a full recovery, and was on his phone before they had even made it out of the country.

"Coulson, this is Fury. I don't know where you found Barton, but I want more of them."


	3. Recruit

Budapest, Hungary

Obviously, tons of people have written about what might have happened in Budapest and imagined the first meeting of Hawkeye and Black Widow. This is my own poor attempt at the same thing. It's longer than the other "chapters" but that's because I wrote it a long time ago not specifically for this grouping.

I do not know any of the languages I use except English, so if my translations are wrong, I apologize!

Yulia Semenov smiled serenely up at her date, while inwardly, Natasha swore in three different languages. She could maintain the Yulia identity without thought by now. She'd cultivated the empty-headed daughter of a minor oligarch for many years. Yulia was seen to be beautiful, rich, stupid, and slightly reclusive because of her father's paranoia.

She was famous for her waist-length, pin-straight black hair, which Nat found tactically a horrendous decision – one she hadn't chosen. Yulia appeared a few times a year at the best parties, always on the arm of someone rich, connected, and handsome.

It wasn't the playacting that bothered Natasha, nor the 4 inch heels or itchy black wig. It wasn't even the ridiculously boring assignment of planting bugs in the ostentatious house they had just entered. It was that he was interfering yet again. In her many years of doing this type of thing, SHIELD had rarely been a blip on her radar. She'd beat up a lot of their agents and killed one once, but they hadn't managed to disrupt her from her own missions much, until they'd sent this guy.

Over the last 6 months, he'd dogged her steps, saving the life of an oil baron she was supposed to kill in Paris, defusing a bomb she'd set in an abandoned subway station in Tokyo (designed to spread terror and distrust in the government) and blowing her cover in a small op in Munich. She'd gotten the best of him in Mexico City and Guadalajara, though, outsmarting him both times to complete her objectives. If she were being honest, there was a certain pleasure in a good opponent, but she hated, detested, abhorred losing.

Now, here he was, former carny turned SHIELD agent and assassin, pain in her butt, at a lavish party thrown by a minor Russian mob boss at his estate in Budapest. There was so much red velvet Natasha's eyes hurt, but she greeted their host, who went by just Svyatopolk, with a vapid smile.

Worse than the blown ops and the inevitable punishment that followed, a few times she'd felt a prickle on her neck, and had spotted the archer with a bead on her. All three times, he'd lowered his bow without taking the shot, and held up fingers – one the first time, two the second, and three the third. Nat growled under her breath. Not only was he rubbing in the fact that he could have killed her (maybe – she would always believe she could have avoided it somehow), she couldn't figure out why hadn't he taken those shots?! SHIELD had to want her dead, and from the research she'd done, the Hawk who was stalking her was one of their best and brightest.

Nat batted her eyes up at her moronic date and answered his question without stopping her inward fuming. "Why, Dane, you know politics make my head hurt! Can't we talk about something important, like this wine? It's divine!" The men around her all laughed, obviously feeling superior to her. It didn't bother her any more, in fact, it made her job much easier. She barely monitored their conversation, since none of those talking had access to any information worth knowing. Instead, she tracked the tuxedoed waiter who had given her an insolent wink. It was that darn Clint Barton. She'd figured out how he kept finding her. She was basically impossible to follow, but her handler had gotten arrogant and sloppy. She felt better knowing it hadn't been her mistake, but she still was beyond irritated. And she had a plan to take the Hawk down a notch or two, and get her job done at the same time.

Looking across the room, Nat made her face light up like her day had been made. "Excuse me, darling, I see my old oдклaccник, my classmate! I must say hello!" Dane gave her an indulgent peck on the cheek and let her go. She worked her way across the room until she found a young server cleaning up a spill. The girl was plain – all of the serving girls, as their host had a different use for the attractive ones – and looked timid. "Excuse me," said Nat, ignoring the others' startled expression at having a guest address her. Nat bit her lip and made sure she looked nervous. "I know you're busy, but, uh, I wondered, well…I'm sorry, just forget it." She finished in a rush and looked away.

The girl looked sympathetic. "What is it, моя ледͷ, my lady," she asked. "I will help if I can."

Nat let her eyes follow Barton around the room. "Well," she hesitated until the girl leaned forward slightly. "There's this server, and my father won't approve, but I really want to get him a message." She sighed and looked down. "He got this job to be near me, but it's just so hard to see him and not be able to talk to him! I don't dare approach him now, because my father has eyes on me." She looked at the girl, who looked fascinated by this bit of poor-little-rich-girl drama and let her eyes fill with tears. "The men my father approves of see me as nothing but an ornament, but he loves me." She toyed with an elaborate hairpin depicting a spider. "I just wanted to give him this, as proof that I love him too and would be with him if I could."

The girls' eyes were wide. "I will give it to him, моя ледͷ," she promised breathlessly. "I will tell him it's from you."

Nat bit her lip again. This was almost too easy. "Are you sure? I would never want to get you into trouble."

"No trouble at all," promised the server. "I'll catch him in the kitchen. None of the guests ever come in there."

"Thank you so much," gushed Nat breathlessly. She pressed a tiny diamond into the girl's gloved palm. "Please take this as my thank you." She walked away before the girl could protest, and cursed herself as she did it. It was way too much, but nothing bothered her more than seeing young girls in virtual slavery. Her handlers thought she had no emotions, because that's what she wanted them to think, but in reality the cold façade was just that – a front that nobody was ever allowed to see behind.

Nat went off to an upstairs bathroom, taking a few moments to plant the first few bugs. They were a feint, as she'd plant the rest once she'd eliminated the source of her annoyance. She smiled as she returned to her date, a real smile this time. "Let the games begin," she whispered to herself.

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Clint had seen Widow talk to the young server, so he wasn't surprised when the latter approached him as he stopped in the kitchen for a new load of champagne. As she breathlessly told her story, he admired the pin his target had sent. It was a stylized spider with a red hourglass on its back – a black widow of course.

He thanked the girl profusely and tucked the gift carefully into his inside pocket cushioned in a handkerchief to avoid getting stuck accidentally. He had a feeling her gifts were nearly as deadly as she was.

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Nat paid only the slightest bit of attention to Dane as he basically slobbered all over her trying to kiss her. He was as blond as they came, and his face was fully flushed from all the alcohol he'd had. Given that Nat had added a little something extra to his last drink, she knew she wouldn't have to put up with his attention for long before he'd be out for the count.

When he staggered, she steered him to the bed and removed his jacket with a seductive smile, expertly hiding her sneer. Sure enough, she had barely finished draping it over a chair when Dane's eyes rolled back in his head. She maneuvered him to lie on the bed. Then she pulled off the wig, washed her face and dressed in the clothes she much preferred: all black tactical gear. She expertly checked her weapons, then opened the ornate window and silently rappelled three stories down.

Svyatopolk had plenty of security, but he chose quantity over quality, and Nat had snuck around this estate before with no problems. Today was no different, and from the information her watch, Barton was moving around pretty easily too. She'd hoped he would keep her little gift on him, and it appeared he had. It was equipped with a stolen piece of SHIELD technology and she hoped it wouldn't get damaged before she got it back. It was far smaller than any of the trackers she'd ever gotten from Hydra or the KGB before them.

She hurriedly finished placing the bugs and moved to intercept Hawkeye. This she didn't want to miss.

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Clint was looking through yet another shed, hoping to find something that would indicate what had brought Romanoff to the estate. He cherished the way her eye had twitched when she'd seen him serving drinks. It was a tiny expression change, but he'd been watching her long enough to know what to look for.

A feeling he couldn't explain made him drop his head just in time for a punch to whistle above him. As he popped back up, he put his momentum behind an uppercut that would knock most men out, but he met only air and staggered back from a strike to his ribs. He realized his mistake immediately – his opponent was shorter than he was, and she was familiar.

"Aw, I thought you were in luuuuuuuuuuuuuuurve with me," he taunted even as he struck out in a one-two jab that only managed to brush her shoulder. He hadn't fought her hand-to-hand before, but appreciated her quickness and knew she was at least a match for him.

"But you aren't wearing my gift," she whined with an exaggerated pout. "It would look so nice in your hair." Clint grinned. He was enjoying this way too much. Neither assassin stopped fighting as they bantered, and neither pulled a weapon either. He recognized his own reluctance, but wondered why she hadn't pulled a knife or even tried to use her stingers.

"I was afraid if I did, I'd end up with it through my heart," he snarked back. Other than the punch he'd taken to the ribs, neither had scored more than a glancing blow. Unexpectedly, Natasha pulled back slightly.

"Some weapons work without me having to touch them at all," she said with a cold, cold smile.

Clint's own grin dropped. His mind rushed to taking off the server gloves and transferring the pin into the pocket of the sweatshirt he was wearing now. Even as the thought occurred to him, he swayed on his feet. "Crap."

Natasha Romanoff, the black widow, blew him a kiss and kicked him in the chest, a kick not designed to injure him, but embarrassingly, to tip him over.

Clint blinked up at the beautiful assassin as his lips went numb. "Poison. What a crappy way to die. You could've at least shot me."

"Oh, it won't kill you," promised Natasha as she fished her pin out of his sweatshirt pocket. "But I will make sure the guards feel the need to check why this door is open."

Clint tried to swear again, but no sound came out. As he faded out of consciousness, he saw her hold up one finger.

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Natasha left the shed door wide open and was surprised to find herself smiling as she left. She kind of hoped he made it out alive. She should have killed him; all her training said so. But instead…

While she'd been thinking, she had scaled back to the room, but something was wrong. She heard voices in the room. She immediately started sliding back down the rope, but wasn't yet halfway when somebody shouted in Russian, "there's a rope outside!" This told her both that she hadn't been seen yet and that she better get off the rope ASAP. She dropped to the ground, only her years of training keeping her from crying out when her ankle made a snapping noise. She dove into the bushes as more men came to the window. She knew they'd be searching the grounds soon now, since from what she'd overheard, they thought that Dane had been drugged so Yulia could be kidnapped. Svyatopolk would be furious that this made his security look bad, and would want to keep her "father" happy.

Nat's mind flew through possible scenarios. It would be perfect to be "discovered" as Yulia, but all of the appropriate clothes were in the suite out of reach. She knew where the garage was, but even if she appropriated a car, they would stop her – possibly with an RPG – before she could get to the gate. If she hid with another guest, she'd be caught when they searched the car. Her mind went through more and more options as the manhunt increased. By the time they were bringing out searchlights, Nat had decided that this was one of those times where it was strategic to be caught. Stashing her bag, she limped out into the open, looking as pathetic as possible. It must have worked, because they gave her only the quickest of searches and tied only her hands. Amateurs.

She was half-dragged, half carried to a large outbuilding and dragged down a flight of naked concrete steps. As they opened a heavy wooden door at the bottom of the stairs, she could hear someone yelling insults in French.

"Frappe moi encore, face de cochon," hit me again, pig face, Clint Barton was saying, because of course it was Clint Barton. He was shackled to a metal chair that was welded to the floor. As Nat was dropped unceremoniously into her own chair – but not secured to it at all, because they were morons – a burly guard slugged Clint, who looked like it wasn't the first hit he'd taken.

Clint dropped his head back to look at her, and was at least good enough to not let any recognition show on his face. "Hey there, beautiful," he said in English. "You being here brightens up this whole room. Wanna grab a beer together when we're done here? Look, we even match!"

Nat wanted to throttle him. How had this idiot managed to get the drop on her? Seriously, the guards had to notice that both of them were wearing black tactical gear and would probably assume that they were working together, but why the heck draw attention to it? Could it be that he was trying to deflect that very suspicion by mentioning it up front? No, he really was an idiot, she decided.

The guard working Clint over yelled at him in Russian, demanding he attention. Clint rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, at least as best he could with his left swollen almost shut. "Leck mich am hintern, affenschwanz," he said switching his insults to German. Lick my butt, monkey tail? Despite their situation, Nat felt a strong urge to laugh. The guard wasn't amused, and punched the man in the gut twice. Clint coughed, then said, "du schlägst wie ein sterbender welpe!" You hit like a dying puppy! Nat's mouth twitched.

Frustrated, the man interrogating him began to pummel him, over and over, screaming for his to speak Russian or he'd slit his throat. Clint took the beating without much reaction, then looked up at his tormentor and said very slowly and deliberately in Spanish this time, "Cago en tu leche," I will poop in your milk. Nat blinked a little. Not much distracted her from planning an exit strategy – especially when he'd taken all of the focus off of her, but his sheer audacity almost did.

But before Nat could do anything or the thugs could react to Barton's latest taunt, a massive boom shook the entire room, then a second even louder. Widow was thrown to the floor, and dirt or pulverized drywall hissed down from the ceiling in several places. Ah, chaos. Her favorite environment.

All of the guards ran out of the room except for the one who'd been questioning Clint. The remaining thug yelled at Russian for the others to come back, but that's all the farther he got before Nat's chair hit him over the head. He was stunned and fell to his knees, where Clint slugged him in the jaw. Nat took him completely out of commission with another hit with the chair. She wasn't surprised that Barton's hands were free because she'd heard the telltale scraping of his picking the cuffs. Figuring he was fine on his own, she grabbed the guard's really nice PP-2000 and turned to leave. Fortunately, her ankle was doing much better already.

"This isn't SHIELD attacking," said her counterpart, as he worked to free his legs. She paused and stared at him for a second. Why the heck would he tell her that? She shook her head and jogged from the room.

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Clint grinned even though it hurt. For some reason, he just loved to antagonize the petite assassin. He also was growing more confident that he had judged her correctly and made the right call. After all, she'd had a chance to kill him and hadn't, even though he knew she was a killer. Heck, she could have shot him in the head just now, but instead she had just run off. Finally free, Clint stood with a grunt and bending painfully, gathered his bow and knives from where his captors had tossed them. No broken ribs, but he was going to feel that beating in the morning. He accidentally on purpose stepped on his tormentor's arm as he left.

When Clint was almost to the top of the stairs, the biggest crash of all almost knocked him back down the stairs and temporarily deafened him. Luckily, he knew perfectly well how to deal without hearing. Before SHIELD had installed permanent hearing aids in his molars – and who knew how that heck that worked, he'd lost his hearing aids on at least half of his missions. He burst through the door into utter chaos. A helicopter was firing at the main house and anyone who tried to escape from it, and guards and guests were running for cover in every direction. Some were firing ineffectively at the copter, which looked like a modified personnel carrier, but sleeker and bristling with powerful, pulsing weapons that screamed Hydra. The top floor of the house was leaning crazily and the continuing fire seemed targeted to destabilize the entire structure. If that wasn't enough, the carriage house, which held all of the vehicles, was burning, and there was sporadic machine gun fire outside of the compound. "Well, this is fun," he muttered.

Clint looked longingly toward the outer fence. In the chaos, he thought he could fight his way out and slip away in the night, but he knew that the serving staff lived in the top floor of the main house, and no matter what Svyatopolk had done to draw this kind of attention, they were innocents.

He worked his way inside, avoiding fire, and was surprised to find the Black Widow in the same hallway. They stood for a second with a bead on each other, then he lowered his bow. "Fancy meeting you here," he said. "I thought you'd be halfway to Moscow by now."

She lowered her weapon with obvious reluctance. "I have some….things…I need to retrieve from my suite. Why did you come in?"

He grimaced. "Staff live on the top floor. They don't need to die today."

Nat rolled her eyes. "I knew you were a moron. There's no way to get everyone out before this whole thing collapses, and even then they're sitting ducks out there."

Clint gave a shrug that was more head than shoulder. "Doesn't matter. I can't just leave them."

"You really are a moron."

"Maybe. So, you coming? It will look good on your resume for SHIELD."

He started walking and Nat couldn't believe that he gave her his back. "That's the dumbest recruitment speech I've heard in my entire life," she muttered, but she followed him.

"How's the ankle?" asked Hawkeye as they worked their way up the narrowing staircase.

"I think I have pretty nice ankles myself. How are yours?"

"You weren't favoring it before, even in those ridiculous shoes."

"Hey, don't dis the shoes! I could kill a guy with those things."

Clint snorted as he shot a guard and dodged to let the body fall past him down the stairs. "You could probably kill a guy three different ways with a paperclip."

"Well, I could at least make him wish he were dead!"

Clint had never had someone watch his back the way Widow did. It was almost embarrassing how little he had to do as they worked their way up staircase after staircase. She could shoot two guns at the same time and hit two different people. She also had a preternatural ability to sense hostiles coming. Any normal person would probably be afraid of her, or at least intimidated, but he had an overwhelming feeling that she was so much more than a killer and a spy. He was darn grateful to have her, especially since his ribs kept reminding him of his beating earlier.

Clint stepped out onto the third floor hallway and elbowed the surprised guard he met. Widow moved at his back and throat-punched another. They finished off their respective opponents, turned toward each other and fired their individual weapons over their partner's shoulder as if they'd fought together a hundred times. They froze like that for a second, and Nat narrowed her eyes as Clint gave a half smile.

"Where is the suite you were in?" he asked.

Nat pointed with her chin. "Don't you have to get those people before this place comes down?"

"If we're working together, we can work toward both of our objectives."

Natasha nearly gagged at the altruism. Personally, she intended to knock his butt out again and gift-wrap him for her superiors, but he seemed to think they were buddies now. No need to give that plan away yet though, because she had no intention of hauling his unconscious butt out of there. No, better to wait until he helped her get out, then do it. With a deceptively innocent smile, she ducked into her suite and gathered up any tech she'd left behind. Unfortunately, her bosses tended to take anything she lost out of her hide, no matter if it was her fault or not.

After just a minute, Nat was ready to go. This time, the going was much slower, even though they didn't have to fight their way anymore. No, the staircase was a wreck, and now the barrage from outside had taken on a cadence of crash, about 4 seconds, and another crash. They were constantly catching themselves against the crumbling walls as they picked their way through the rubble. At one point, bits of the ceiling rained down on them, but they didn't say a word, just moved faster. At least they were on the top level and, unlike the other floors, this one was full of panicked people.

Clint moved unerringly to the server who Nat had recruited to deliver her gift. He spoke quietly to her, calling her by name, and asking for her help. Watching him move among the people and reassure them, Nat thought that this part of him was more dangerous than all of his assassin skills put together.

While the girl – Elena – was gathering everyone together, Clint turned to Natasha and spoke quietly. "I don't speak Hungarian, but they all seem to understand Russian pretty well. I think we should send them down the stairs we just cleared and out the back. We can cover them from up here, and they should be able to get to the carriage house. I think the guards are holed up there, and they won't shoot their own people. Rumor says Svyatopolk is dead."

Nat crouched in front a window with a good view of the back of the compound area and bit her lip. "There's a decent amount of cover, but if we're wrong about how security reacts or if that helicopter comes around to this side, they're screwed." She paused as a concussion threw her to the floor. She ignored Clint's proffered hand and got up on her own. "But this house is coming down soon. I think it's their best shot. They should go out in small groups of 2 to 4 people." Clint nodded once at her assessment and went back to talk to the people they were helping. Soon, they were making their way down the stairs with their instructions.

The two assassins laid down some cover fire, trying to take out and flush out any of Hydra's people who might be in the back. Soon, the staff people began to run across the lawn. Most of them were making it, especially once the first few were across.

"They have to be almost all out," said Clint. "Can you cover the rest? I'm going to secure us a ride out of here." Nat's eyes widened.

"Why do I have the feeling that you're about to do something stupid?"

Clint grinned. "You might want to get to a lower level." Then he was gone.

When 30 seconds had passed without anyone else coming out of the house, Nat stowed her weapons and ran down the stairs as fast as she could. The house was not going to stand for long. She exited out of a side door near the kitchen, and looked up to see a line above her, connected to the top of the carriage house by an arrow. As she processed this, Clint began to zipline down it, connected by a carbiner, shooting at the helicopter as he went. Of course, every hostile on the ground immediately targeted him. With some choice words on her lips, she ran below the archer, creating a second target and taking out a few of the shooters.

Suddenly, the helicopter glanced off the side of the house, which collapsed with an explosion that blow her flat. The helicopter's barrage had gone on so long that even the raining debris seemed quiet. Nat popped her head up to look at where Barton had ended up. His line had collapsed with the house, and she saw him prone with his legs half covered in broken bricks.

To her relief (though she'd never admit it), he was not only alive, but starting to get up when she got to him. She squatted next to him and stared through the haze left from the crash. He coughed a couple of times and let her pull him to a sitting position.

"How did you take down a helicopter?!"

"First, let's see if we can clear it out and take the helicopter, and then I'll tell you all about it!"

She gave him a skeptical look. "You think that thing will fly again?"

"Oh, yeah!"

So, Nat found herself fighting side-by-side with her erstwhile nemesis again. It helped that most of the people were disoriented by the crash and chaos, and they soon found themselves at the copter. Clint messed with the rotors and they jumped in. "You better be right about this," she muttered, kicking away a man in body armor who thought he could pull her out.

Clint worked feverishly at the controls as Nat covered him. More and more of Hydra's people were becoming aware that their helicopter was in danger of being stolen. "Low on ammo here, Robin Hood," she complained. "It's now or not at all." To her surprise, the rotors slowly began to turn.

"C'mon, c'mon," encouraged Clint, stabbing an over-eager attacker without taking his eyes off the controls. The copter slowly – too slowly – righted itself and began to climb. Nat fought to get her door closed, then crawled behind Barton to close his door too. Unfortunately, there was someone trying to get in his door, and she had to dodge the knife he swung and punch him to get him out and the door closed. "Hey," yelled Clint as he got an elbow in the back of the head.

"Oooops," was all she said, but he saw a hint of a smile.

They weren't out of the woods yet though. They were rising so slowly that two men grabbed onto the left strut, and bullets were pinging off of the fuselage like popcorn in the microwave. "I gotta open your door to get rid of some extra baggage," Nat warned Clint.

"What the—" is all he had a chance to say in response as she pried the door open and leaned out as far as she could, trying to get a better angle for the shot. Clint grabbed the back of her belt and braced her, and she let go of the door and performed a quick one-two, shooting both men off of them. The sudden weight change made the helicopter lurch, and one of her feet slipped out into the air. "No, you don't," grunted Clint, pulling back suddenly and sending her to the floor of the copter. "Er…sorry."

Nat smiled as she pulled the door shut again and took the seat next to him. "Yeah, thanks."

An evil glint entered the man's eyes. He held up 4 fingers.

"WHAT? You're on crack, Barton! I saved your life at least twice back there!"

"You didn't call it, so it doesn't count."

"What are you, five? This isn't a game!"

"Sure it is, and you're losing." He held up a hand before she could vent her outrage. "Any ideas about where to land? The lovely trail we're leaving behind is fuel, I think. I can't read any of this."

"It's in Russian. I thought you knew Russian. How many languages do you speak anyway?"

"I barely speak English, but I can insult you in five languages and swear in seven. And I sure don't read Russian." Tasha could only shake her head.

In the end, they were able to contact SHIELD and get the coordinates of a field in Romania where they could be picked up the next day. Fortunately, it was very, very remote, because they literally ran out of fuel as they were maneuvering to land, and basically fell the last 8 feet or so.

"You land a helicopter just as smoothly as you do everything else," teased Natasha as they bandaged themselves up the best they could. She was wrapping her ankle as she spoke, since it really probably was broken, given how much it still hurt. Running up and down the stairs most likely hadn't helped anything.

Clint scowled as he cleaned and wrapped a gash just below his elbow. "I ran out of fuel, Romanoff. That has nothing to do with my piloting abilities!"

"Sounds like poor planning to me."

"Another word, and I won't share any breakfast with you."

Nat looked pointedly around the clearing. "And what five-star restaurant am I not seeing?"

"Watch and learn," he snarked. He crawled into the helicopter and turned on a few lights, then laid on his back beneath the copter's belly, with his bow on his chest and an arrow nocked but not drawn. "Now, be quiet," he demanded.

Nat scoffed, but silently, since she was curious what he would do next. To her surprise, he stayed perfectly still until rabbits began to wander into the meadow. She didn't hear him move, but she heard three zings, and he gave her an infuriating smile. "Your breakfast awaits, milady."

"Show off. I'm not going to go find those in the dark." But he didn't answer, and she realized that he'd fallen asleep. She stared at him for a second in disbelief. Did the man have no sense of self-preservation whatsoever? She was his enemy, really. What was to stop her from killing him in his sleep and calling in Hydra or any of the others who paid bounties for dead SHIELD agents? And there were many, many parties that would love to have the helicopter. She truly considered it, weighing all of her options like she always did.

She could easily contact her handler, who could tell her who would pay the highest bounty. She'd avoid Hydra for now because they wouldn't be too happy about all of the men of theirs they had killed in their escape. Still, they tended to view technology as more important than lives, and they would be thrilled to have the chopper back. There was a team of terrorists operating out of Benghazi that was well-funded too, and happy to pay for tech. She could even cut out the middle man and just start a new identity afterward, taking jobs only when she wanted to.

There was really no downside, unless SHIELD got to her first. And going with SHIELD – there were no guarantees there. Who was to say they wouldn't just kill her on sight? Why should she believe that this one agent had enough pull to get her recruited instead of disposed of – or stuck in some deep hole and forgotten? And yet…

There shouldn't be any and yet. She had been taught to look to her own interests only, and she had learned the lesson well. "I know you want something more…" he'd said. Is there any possible way that could be true? He hadn't asked anything of her, had guarded her back, and yes, had had his own opportunities to kill her. He hadn't even tried to take advantage of her after they'd landed. Natasha scowled at the sleeping man. She did not think like this, and this was all his fault!

She gathered the rabbits and skinned them for something to do, and the whole time Clint never stirred. She leaned over him and stared at his face for a few moments. Her hands were actually shaking. How dare he put her in this position? How dare he make her want to be better? She should kill him, make money, go back to her life. Instead, she was contemplating taking a chance that someone else truly had her back.

Hawkeye opened his eyes and put his hand on her wrist, and she realized that she was holding a knife. He just rested his hand there, no pressure or anything. "Stop thinking so hard," he said, "if you were going to kill me, you would've done it by now." Then he smiled and drifted back to sleep.

Widow pulled back, startled. He was right. She'd had so many chances and she hadn't taken them. She was stressing over a decision that her subconscious had already made. Wondering if she would die for this leap of faith, she sheathed her knife.

Natasha looked back at Clint and realized what else was bothering her. He was an assassin, like her, and he would never sleep this deeply without…she sighed out loud when she discovered his pant legs sticky with blood. Cursing him in three different languages – again – she set about cleaning up and bandaging the many, many, many gouges and slashes on his legs, because she sure as hell didn't want to explain to SHIELD why their agent was lying on the ground dead next to her.

Clint Barton came awake to the all-to-familiar feeling of an IV being inserted into his arm. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes and squinted up at the sun. He was surprised to see Phil Coulson looking down at him. "Where's Natasha?"

"Easy, Agent," said Phil with a wry smile. "You didn't mention being injured when you called this in."

"Not injured," Clint coughed, accepted a sip of water from the field medic who had put in the IV, and let his head fall back to the ground. "Not seriously, anyway. Where's Natasha?"

"Your target?"

"No, the newest agent of SHIELD. When I said I had acquired a tremendous new asset, I wasn't talking about the stupid helicopter." Phil's eyebrows shot up.

"Is that so?"

"Oh yeah. We worked together to get out of there alive and get this bird to you. Don't say it in front of her, but" he lowered his voice to a whisper, "she saved my life a few times."

"I heard that!" said a familiar voice, and Clint turned his head to see a rumpled-looking Nat with her hands cuffed behind her back.

"Phil, get those cuffs off her before she kills someone! We can't afford her as our enemy. And I think her ankle's broken – you might want to look at that."

Phil reluctantly nodded to the men flanking Natasha, and one of them, equally reluctantly, removed her reinforced handcuffs. His hand brushed her backside as he did so, and Clint immediately sat up, ignoring the complaints of the medics, who had to move quickly to hold up the IV bag.

"Touch her like that again and she'll probably break every bone in your body and light you on fire. And you know what I'll do about it? Hand her a match."

The man turned a startled gaze to Phil, who shrugged. "I'll bring the marshmallows."

The man looked down at the woman in front of him, who smiled so coldly that he took a step back despite being nearly a foot taller than she was. He swallowed hard. "My apologies, ma'am. It will never happen again."

As Hawkeye struggled to his feet, brushing off the concerns and complaints of Phil and both medics, Nat studied him silently. She ignored the man who checked over her ankle and waved off his offer to rewrap it or give her pain meds. It was practically healed anyway, and she had other things on her mind.

Clint's defense of her, while not trying to fight her battles for her, began to round out a picture of who this man really was, and she hadn't thought there were men like that. With a slight smile, this one immensely warmer than the one she'd given a few moments before, she interrupted the ongoing argument and pulled Clint's arm over her shoulder.

"Lean on me or it's going to take forever to get to the transport, moron. And I intend to eat more than just rabbit this morning."

Barton's complaints subsided and he allowed her to help him, which surprised Phil yet again. He wasn't someone who was easily surprised, so he took a moment to watch the procession of Nat, Clint, and two medics, make their way to the old-fashioned troop transport truck at the back of the caravan. Then, he turned and issued a few orders about the helicopter before following them.

Phil climbed into the truck and radioed the driver to go, then cleared his throat to head off yet another argument, since the medics wanted Clint to lie down so they could check him over more completely. He, predictably, thought otherwise. "Mission report, Barton," said Phil.

Natasha listened closely as Clint closed his eyes, rested his head on the side of the truck, and recounted the details of the last 12 hours. He skipped their fight entirely, instead saying that she had left him a message and they had been meeting in the basement of the carriage house when the attack had started. She noticed he also understated his own role, just mentioning that he shot the helicopter down while she was covering him.

"A-HEM," she interrupted deliberately. "You shot at the helicopter while zip lining across open space and taking fire. Then you fell two stories because the helicopter ran into one of those buildings." She ignored Clint's glare and continued. "I would like to know how you took that copter down without seriously damaging it, by the way."

Clint sighed as the medics began to fuss again. "Simple. I shot 3 pound magnets at the rotors on one side until it became unbalanced enough to stall." He never opened his eyes to see all four of the others gaping at him.

"That's impossible."

"Impossible shots are my favorite kind." Unruffled, he continued his report, making sure they knew that she had put her life in danger to shoot their attackers off of the copter, and had been the one who could read the controls. When he finished, Coulson gave a nod to one of the medics, who injected something into Clint's IV. Within moments, the man's head had fallen to his chest and they were finally able to lay him down and clean and redress the injuries on his legs, at least cursorily.

When they had finished and had the agent strapped safely to the bench and covered in a blanket, Phil signaled the driver to stop and sent the medics to a different truck. When they'd gone and the truck had started moving again, he smiled at the woman across from him.

"Ms. Romanoff, I would like to hear your debriefing, if you're up for it." So Nat told the whole story again, but she explained their fight and the interrogation. She figured if they wanted her to work for them, they should know who they were dealing with. She even told them that she'd considered killing Clint while he was sleeping and selling the tech to the highest bidder. She went through the fight as well, covering everything her compatriot had glossed over. Then she looked at the agent expectantly, one eyebrow raised in a so-what-now expression.

Coulson didn't respond immediately. When he did, his eyes flicked to his slumbering agent, then up to Nat. "He trusts you." Pause. "He doesn't trust easily."

"So what happens now? Is your director going to hire me? Or stick me in a deep hole? Or what? I'm not exactly a poster child for new SHIELD operatives, I'm guessing."

Phil folded his arms and leaned back in thought. "The director thinks outside of the box better than anyone else I know. He sees opportunities where others might not. And he values Agent Barton's input, more than most. I don't know what he'll decide, but if you are completely honest with him, like I believe you've been with me, I expect that he'll give you a chance to prove yourself."

Nat nodded. She appreciated that he didn't give her any false platitudes, and felt a faint stirring of hope that she tried to ignore. Hope hadn't worked so well in the past, but it was persistent nonetheless. She looked down at Barton's stupid, sleep face. "You better be right, she muttered under her breath."

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3 days later…at an undisclosed SHIELD facility

Phil Coulson and Nick Fury were standing on a half balcony that overlooked a long, wide corridor lined with windows. SHIELD employees scurried back and forth below, but their eyes were on a specific pair that was doing more arguing than walking.

"The only reason you won't spar with me is because you're scared I'll kick your butt!" the man was insisting. "Admit it!"

"No, I'll feel bad breaking your ribs when you're already so injured. They had to knock you out and ship you here like deadweight, remember, Agent Sleeping Beauty."

"THAT was completely uncalled for! I'm not even really injured!"

"Two stress fractures in your shins sounds like injured to me. Smooth on the landings you are not, Barton."

"Hey! Medical records are private!" the man complained, rounding to face his companion.

"Spy, remember?" the redhead smirked.

"That's not fair!"

"Oh my gosh! Are you two years old –"

The pair moved around a corner beyond the hearing of those who were watching.

Coulson stared after them. "Partners? Really, sir?"

Fury smiled, and it was slightly terrifying. "Either they'll kill each other or be the best team we have. Either way, it will be entertaining."


	4. Redemption

Set shortly after the events of the Avengers movie. I put Thor back on earth because I wanted to.

_Stark Tower...or is it Avengers Tower? New York, New York _

When the text came in at 1:27am, Clint Barton was not asleep. He was wearing his customary sleepwear of soft shorts and a wifebeater, but instead of seeking rest, he was doing pull-ups. He had caught Tony in his main lab doing pull-ups one day, the latter telling him it was a good break to keep him awake and "stimulate the ol' cerebellum. Clint had remarked in passing that he wished he had one in his room, and one had magically appeared 2 days later. He figured it was because he had hardly any requests for Tony with regards to his suite. He just didn't know if it would ever feel like home.

So, when his phone buzzed, he was more than awake, and he dropped to the floor and opened the text. It piqued his interest immediately, for a few reasons. First, it was forwarded from an old number of his. Second, it was from a SHIELD agent that he hadn't actually seen in at least 2 years. Third, it was a request for help.

Hitting the frat house with JT and the gang Sat at 7. Bringing a keg. You in? It read innocuously enough. But it was a basic enough code for SHIELD. Going on an op with fewer guys than I'd like, it told him. We're meeting at a specific safe house known as the frat house ASAP. Could use backup, but no emergency. Agents would send out these texts on occasion when they knew they wouldn't have as much personnel as they felt was safe. It was an invite to join them off the books. Nobody blamed you for not responding, but saying yes always made you look good.

This appealed to Clint, because he had no interest in dreaming about drowning again. That's what he had felt when Loki had touched him with the spear. It wasn't that another consciousness had pushed him out of his mind, but that the sheer size of it had crushed his will, simply pressing it down and out of the way. He had been pushed into a tiny space, only peripherally aware of his own senses. It hadn't crept into his mind but had bludgeoned its way in. Clint shook himself. This was supposed to distract him, not leave him wallowing. The dreams were bad enough; there was no need to revisit them when he was awake.

So, he constructed a quick reply. I'll bring the Bud Light. Simply put, he said he was on his way. He was looking forward to seeing the agent who'd sent the message, a Darren Dixon. They had shared a lot of beers and laughs years back, when things were simpler.

Clint was showered in 5 minutes, dressed and geared up in another 10. He wore his black short-sleeve tactical gear, but layered it with a lightweight tan jacket. The pants and boots were unremarkable, but the vest with all of its knives would draw too much attention on the street, as would his archery glove. He loaded a backpack with more weapons and included his most versatile compound bow. It was truly a genius design, able to be folded down in size without ever being unstrung. He checked his arrows and gave himself a quick once-over. About to leave, he hesitated then sent a text to Nat with a quick summary of where he was headed and why. He set it to be delivered at 8am so it wouldn't wake her. If she checked her phone before then, she would see it, but it wouldn't buzz and bother her while she was asleep.

In the past, though partners, they could go for weeks without being in contact and it didn't bother them to much. That had been slowly changing as they became Fury's favorites and took on more and more dangerous missions. And since, well, Loki, they didn't so much as leave Stark Tower without updating each other. It should have felt stifling for two such independent souls, but instead they understood that they both needed it right now.

Clint snuck out of the tower, avoiding all cameras just because he could and because it drove Tony crazy whenever he found blind spots. He walked a few blocks southwest even though his destination was was due north. Then he caught a cab and gave his driver an address three blocks short of where he wanted to be. The drive took about 30 minutes, but the cabby amused him. An older, white-haired man with a thin mustache, the man claimed to have seen the entire Battle of New York from the park where he'd been playing chess. "It's all fake, though!" he'd exclaimed, waving his arms far more than one should while driving. "Super heroes and aliens? What a joke! I think China attacked but the government don't want us to know. And the people are too stupid to see through it." Clint didn't comment much, but he didn't shut him down either. There was something endearing about the man.

Besides, he was far too pleased to be out on an op to complain about much. If there was one thing he simply couldn't handle, it was inactivity.

When he got out, he paid in cash and tipped enough to keep his driver from being annoyed, but not enough to be really remembered. "Watch out for aliens!" he'd called as he left, smiling.

It was a fine night in New York. There was a breeze to break up the humidity, and it was quiet enough that he could keep to the shadows and be certain that nobody was watching him. Oh, SHIELD had tried to watch him for the first week, but they couldn't defeat Tony's tech to watch him inside the tower, and they couldn't keep track of him when he left it. The thought made him smile. I snuck up on Natasha Romanoff more than once, he thought. You better believe I can dodge a couple ordinary agents. He and Nat had honed each other over many, many missions into more than they had ever been on their own.

Okay, time to focus.

Clint had entered one of the residential areas that surprised visitors to the city by crouching at the base of the skyscrapers like mushrooms. You'd be surrounded by the typical hi-rises and suddenly find a subdivision that had been swallowed by the city but never quite digested.

This neighborhood wasn't quite squalid, but it toed the line. The houses all looked the same, worn to a gray color, squatting on postage stamp yards with crooked doors and darkened windows. The residents weren't dangerous so much as absolutely apathetic about what their neighbors might be doing. It was a perfect place for a safe house, and the non sequitur of calling it the frat house amused the agents who used it.

Clint did a quick circle to ensure nobody was watching, then slid in through the unlocked door to the attached garage. Nobody ever used the front door. Something pricked at his attention just as he reached for the doorknob into the house. He began to turn to survey the garage again as his hand connected with the knob. Electricity arcing through him causing pain to shoot through him, then, darkness.

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A resounding slap knocked Clint's face to the side and brought him into unpleasant wakefulness. His other cheek throbbed too, indicating he'd probably had more than one hit before waking up. Every muscle in his body ached and something made him feel like he was choking until he picked his head up. He blinked, acting more disoriented than he really was so he could take stock of the situation quickly.

He recognized the inside of the frat house immediately. He was standing against the front wall of the shabby living room, facing the tiny kitchen. Yes, standing. Somehow held upright by metal bands on his wrists, ankles, and neck. Ah, that was what made it feel like he was choking. He tugged experimentally on his arms, but the bands seemed attached to the wall and didn't move.

"Wakey, wakey, Hawkeye, hero of New York," sneered a voice that used to talk to him with affection.

"Darren?" he drawled, still playing up being disoriented.

The man's normally good-natured face was so twisted with rage he was almost unrecognizable. "Good to know you still notice the little people."

"What the hell is this, man? If this is a joke, I'm not laughing," Clint parried while still tugging surreptitiously on his bonds.

"Like the new additions?" Apparently, he hadn't been as sneaky as he'd thought. "We had some pretty heavy hitters here as our guests for a week or so. Thought I'd make good use of them. And no, this isn't a joke."

Clint studied the man he'd once considered a friend, or at least closer to a friend than most people could claim. He wasn't good at getting close, but still, he had respected Darren and enjoyed his company. And Darren had been the first agent to treat Natasha like an equal. His face was affable more than attractive, and the dark curls that flopped on his forehead made him seem younger than he was. He had always played on being underestimated. To see that face twisted with pain and madness opened the hurt inside Clint that he'd come here to avoid. "What happened to you, man?"

"YOU happened to me!" growled Darren, getting right in his face. "You! You happened to me." He stood still for a moment, breathing heavily, his fists clenching and unclenching. Quieter, he continued, "There was this woman. Jen. She had the best sniper scores in SHIELD since – well, you. Climbing the ranks. Handpicked by Hill for great things. Too good for me, but she didn't see it that way. I bought a ring and thought when her tour on the helicarrier was done I'd..."

"No," breathed Clint.

"Oh, yes. I'd love to propose but she's a little too dead for that now. Not by hostiles. Not in the line of duty or whatever crap they spout, but from an ally. You know who else was on that helicarrier? Brewster. Key word: was."

Clint closed his eyes. Brewster and Dixon had been partners for almost as long as Romanoff and Barton. He imagined how it would feel to lose his love and partner on the same day and a wave of nausea swept over him. Could he forgive the man who had caused it? Should he expect forgiveness from the man in front of him?

"Luckily," continued Darren, "luckily we know exactly who lead the assault on the helicarrier. Heck, he was captured right away. So then he was brought to trial and justice, right? RIGHT? Oh, no, no, it wasn't his fault and he didn't mean it so he went free while we were left to bury our dead!" He was screaming again, spit flying into Clint's face.

He went to the kitchen and rummaged through the backpack that was on the counter. Pulling out Clint's bow, he asked more quietly, "Is this the bow you used?" Clint couldn't answer. "Well, this is the bow that's going to kill you. Confess. Then die."

Clint swallowed, then swallowed again. The guilt was an old friend by now, but seeing the grief and rage of a man who'd been a friend, to have names attached to the faceless dead gutted him. He slumped in his bonds. After the cruel words he'd said to himself, this felt like something he deserved. He came back to himself to see that Darren had the bow together and he winced a little, suddenly knowing what was going to happen.

"Uh, are you sure you want to...okay."

Darren nocked an arrow and his face lit with glee. Until he tried to draw it. He was not a large man, but kept himself strong and very fit. Yet, he couldn't come anywhere close to a complete draw. In his younger days, when some of the more uptight recruits had hassled Clint, he would sometimes shut them down by challenging them to draw the bow that seemed like so much a part of himself. So far, nobody had had the exact configuration of strength to do it.

"Um, it's in the trapezius. Nobody really remembers to work on it, so don't worry that --" Darren cut him off with a literal roar.

"This is NOT a joke," he yelled, throwing the bow down. He pulled a lethal-looking bowie knife instead and Clint remembered he'd always been a knife guy. He stepped close enough that his breath brushed Clint's face and laid the flat side of the blade against Clint's cheek. "I just need the words, Barton, and this will be over. Admit to me that you wanted to kill those people. That you were in control of yourself and that their blood is on their hands."

Clint looked into the eyes of the man who would kill him and his uncertainty melted away. "Darren," he said quietly, "I was on assignment for Fury. You know, the guy who helped pull me out of the gutter and make what I can do mean something. I saved his life. Then I – I shot him and tried to kill him. Why would I do that?" Clint remembered screaming in his mind as his hand lifted the gun. He had somehow wrenched enough control to change the intended head shot to a chest shot, saving Fury's life since the man lived in a bullet proof vest. His eyes went distant remembering the pain that followed. The thing in his head had been so very, very furious. It had rooted around in his mind and turned on a movie of all of Clint's sins and failures. It had made him beg for death, made him curl up in a ball within his own mind and wonder if he would ever be whole again. Yet, Fury had lived.

"Then," Clint's voice cracked. "Then on the helicarrier, I tried to kill Natasha." He could barely say the words out loud. "I pulled a knife on her, looked her in the face, and tried to slit her throat." He was shaking in earnest now. He had forced himself to miss the shot he had taken at her, and he had drawn his knife with his non-dominant hand, but otherwise had been helpless to impact his own movements. He had been inches from her face and forcing the knife down. If she hadn't bitten him...

"Would I do those things, Darren? Even if I hated SHIELD, even if I was that man, would I want to kill those two? Could I? They both saved my life, in different ways." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't you think I could have found a way to save Coulson if it really was my plan?"

"You're a liar," hissed Darren, stepping back. His hand flashed, the knife so sharp it took a few seconds for Clint to realize that he'd been cut. The mad agent had slashed him from his left shoulder almost all the way to his right hip, not deep enough to kill, but enough that blood immediately soaked his shirt. Darren slashed the other way, making Clint's torso a bloody X.

Clint realized that it wouldn't take him very long to bleed out, but staring down death had made things very clear to him. The pain was still there, but he finally had the certainty that no, he couldn't have stopped what happened. He was a victim just like those who had died. Manacled to a wall in a filthy safe house, blood pouring down his chest, he found his peace.

Darren must have seen it in his eyes, because his rage grew even more. He threw the knife down and paced the room, pulling on his hair and growling incoherently. This was not his friend any more, Clint realized. This was a tortured man who was trying to transfer his pain.

Darren stalked into the garage and came back with a gas can. "If you won't confess, then you will burn. You will never kill anyone else!" Laughing, but with tears running down his face, he poured the gasoline on the floor around Clint and on his pant legs. He pulled a lighter and flicked it on and off, on and off, watching Clint's face carefully. He wants to see fear, Clint thought. But instead of fear, Clint felt a sense of sorrow for the ravaged soul of his former friend.

Then the front door exploded. A giant hammer came flying through it, paused in midair, and reversed course. Mjolnir, because of course it was Mjolnir, appeared again, this time in the fist of an angry god. Darren didn't so much as flinch. But he did drop the lighter.

Thor turned toward Clint and Darren and took in the situation in a glance. The whoosh of flames was drowned out by his roar, and he dove toward them.

There was a clash and a lot of other noise and Clint was flying and then he couldn't breathe. Thor climbed off of him and the breathing got a lot easier as he realized that he was flat on his back and that he could see the starry sky.

Things got a little fuzzy after that, and instead of fully grown thoughts, he had only impressions. Thor's breastplate was shiny with blood. Natasha was shouting – maybe at him? – that maybe morons should check if other agents were on psychological leave before meeting them. He was not on fire, although he couldn't remember why that was important. Nothing much was important. He was floating, and faces were drifting closer and farther away, but none of it could touch him. He didn't even respond when an oxygen mask was placed over his face, which he normally hated. And when Nat leaned close and told him she'd put a bullet in Darren's brain, he just smiled and closed his eyes.

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Clint opened his eyes slowly. The pain in his chest and the sluggish feeling of his body told him that he was in the hospital, but he was pleased to see that he was alone. The hospital room was the nicest one he'd ever seen, with soft yellow walls instead of harsh white, a bed that was actually comfortable, and a massive TV on the wall. It was quiet too, even his medical equipment humming instead of beeping or squealing. He had the feeling that this was the Stark Tower medical facility.

His bladder took that moment to let him know why he'd awoken, and he had a wave a gratitude that there was no catheter. He disconnected the oxygen sensor before pulling it off his finger, and considered removing his IV too, but knew from experience that that normally set off alarms. Instead, he leveraged himself gingerly to sit on the edge of the bed. His chest felt like it just might explode, and he was forced to stop and catch his breath. He was nothing if not determined, so he stood up anyway and began to shuffle toward the bathroom with all of the speed of an arthritic turtle. He was about halfway when he began to sway and had to pause and use the IV pole for balance.

As he did, his luck failed him and the door opened. Thor's head peaked through, the hesitation on his face morphing into surprise when he saw Clint on his feet.

"Friend Barton, they told me you were still asleep," he said as he rushed over.

"Shhhh. I don't want any nurses in here yet." Clint shuffled a few more steps. "I need to go to the bathroom and I don't need any of their help." He had very strong opinions about medical care.

"Then I shall walk with you, for I would like to talk." He subtly took Clint's elbow and acted as if he were just casually walking along side of him and not helping. It was an unusually insightful moment for the gregarious man. Clint was grumpy but grateful, because the bathroom was a lot farther away than it had initially seemed. After a few steps, Thor cleared his throat. "I owe you an apology."

Clint was surprised. "For what?" His memory of the end of the night was admittedly fuzzy, but he certainly remembered Thor rushing in and saving him.

"When I saw the fire, I acted without thinking. I tackled you through the wall," he winced. "And broke some of your ribs. For a moment, I forgot you are human."

So that's why he was in so much pain. Clint didn't say that though. Instead, he looked up until Thor met his eyes. "Thor, I was either going to bleed out or be burned to death before you came in. You saved my life. What's a couple broken ribs versus my life?"

Thor winced again. "Four. Four of your ribs are cracked."

"So what? They'll heal. I'm still here, because of you." He swallowed, but wasn't going to stop now. "I've been trying to figure out what's next. If what happened to me will change me. You guys coming to get me reminds me that it's not just about me. I'm part of a team." He shook his head, all out of the touchy-feely words. "Now, I'm going in there so I don't pee on the floor." He pointed at the bathroom door right in front of them. "And you're not coming. And just so you know, if you tell anyone that I needed help to get to the bathroom, I'm painting your fancy hammer pink." Thor chuckled and let his friend go in.

The walk back to the bed was excruciating, but when Thor tried to offer more help, Clint just growled at him. Even so, he practically dragged the archer the last 5 feet. When Clint was finally tucked back into bed, he gave a huge yawn. "You know, I broke Fury's ribs once. Saving his life. He forgave me, and he's not really the forgiving type." Thor thought he'd really like to hear that story some day. Clint blinked heavily. "You're a good guy, Thor. Thanks for having my back." Another yawn. "Imma sleep now, but you don't have to leave if you don't want to."

Thor nodded and his friend drifted off in seconds. After a while, a nurse came in and quietly checked some of the equipment, then left just as quietly. As she was going out, Natasha walked in. Her brow furrowed to see Clint asleep. "I was sure he'd be awake by now," she whispered to herself.

"He was," whispered Thor back. He was proud of how quiet his voice came out. "He walked to the bathroom earlier." Nat's eyebrows rose and she tugged on Thor's arm, indicating that he should step outside the room with her. When they had closed the door, she growled,

"He walked himself to the bathroom? That moron! He could have fallen on his face and had to have the ribs reset!"

Thor was torn between reassuring her that he had helped and his promise not to tell anyone. But Natasha wasn't done. "I suppose he passed out right after that?"

"No," admitted Thor. "He was tired but said I could stay when he fell asleep."

Natasha's mouth dropped open a fraction, the equivalent of a gasp from anyone else. "Tell me exactly what he said," she insisted.

"Well, I apologized for injuring him." Thor blinked away the lingering sadness. Clint might have a fragile human body, but the size of his courage caused the Asgardian to forget that fact often. "He said that I am forgiven, then he said, 'I'm going to fall asleep but you may stay.'"

A slight smile lit Nat's face and she tipped her head thoughtfully. "Thor, Clint doesn't trust very easily. He especially hates to have people around when he's vulnerable, like when he's asleep." She weighed her words carefully. "I can count on one hand the number of people he would allow to stay. I think it's safe to say that he's forgiven you completely."

The last of Thor's tension fled and a huge smile transformed his face. "I am honored! I will keep watch while he sleeps."

breakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreakbreak

Tony opened the door of a linen closet and saw Clint Barton, shirtless, perched on a shelf hunched forward with a Swiss Army Knife in his hand. "I found him," he called loudly before Clint could stop him. Clint glared but focused on his task again. "What are you doing?" asked Tony, completely mystified.

"Taking out my stitches," responded Clint without looking up again, in a voice that implied he was thinking duh.

"Why?" Tony drew the word out. Natasha, Bruce, Steve, and Clint's least favorite nurse appeared behind him wearing expressions that ranged from annoyed to concerned.

Natasha muttered a few things about Clint's intelligence level and called him a nasty name in Russian. "You have 400 stitches, you moron."

"Because they want to knock me out to do it." Clint ignored Nat and went back to work. A drip of sweat rolled down his temple.

"Why don't you come back to your room and we can talk about it?" asked Steve, sounding like he was talking someone off a ledge.

Before Clint could answer, Thor appeared and cheerfully shouldered everyone else aside, walking into the closet and immediately making it feel even smaller. "Come, Barton. We shall ask for the medicine that feels good but does not cause you to sleep and allow other to do the stitch removal work. Perhaps you can tell me the story of when you broke Fury's ribs. And if you fall asleep, I shall keep watch."

Clint finally stopped. He had managed a while 11 stitches, and as sick as he was of that bed, he was still really freaking tired and sore. He made eye contact with each of his teammates.

"Fine," he grumbled. "Fine, fine, FINE. But she is not touching me." He pointed at the glaring nurse and stood up. Thor beamed and Tony hurried to bribe the offended nurse. Because even grouchy, their archer was worth it.


	5. Stranded

Well, oops. I posted the previous chapter twice. Sorry about that! This is the REAL final chapter. I have tons of more ideas, so if you read it or liked it or hated it or whatever, I'd love your feedback!

This is set shortly after Winter Soldier but before Age of Ultron

I was intrigued by the scene the Russo's mentioned was almost in TWS, where Hawkeye has tracked Cap down and they are focusing in on each other, when Barton mentions there's a tracker in Cap's suit, and to hit him and make it look good. This story assumes that this did, indeed happen, and is one way the two could have improved their trust and teamwork before AoU.

Steve Rogers was almost as impressed by the stream of invectives coming uninterrupted from Clint Barton's mouth as he was by the speed at which the man made adjustments as he tried to prevent the Quinjet they were in from crashing. Neither the swearing nor the rapid-fire adjustments worked, however, and they met the forest with a mighty crash.

The Quinjet spun like a top, branches cracking like gunshots, then suddenly dipped down and caught its edge on the earth, throwing the men inside against their harnesses like rag dolls. The impact flipped the jet over twice, downing several trees, and coming to a stop at last, resting at a forty degree angle with the cockpit facing down.

As the last free items inside slid to a stop and quiet fell, Steve turned to his pilot. "Clint, are you hurt?" He saw the blood trickling from the other man's nose.

"Nah." Clint wiped the blood. "This is just from the G's. How about you?"

Steve had already done an internal assessment and shook his head, unfastening his harness.

"These birds are tough," said Clint with satisfaction. "But I think it's time to get the heck out of here. We need to get a signal out to the others because it's a long time until we miss check-in." He huffed in annoyance. "So much for a routine mission."

"There's no such thing," responded Steve automatically, remembering back to Fury's briefing. There was a facility believed to be in the heart of the Brazilian rainforest that SHIELD had been looking for for years, he'd told the team. They'd finally had some reasonable intel about a possible location, but were loath to send an entire team to chase what the World Security Council termed a ghost. Fury offered that two "volunteers" and a Quinjet could check it out, low cost, low fuss and had naturally called Strike Team Delta.

Natasha had been knee-deep in infiltrating a group of ostensible drug lords who were apparently actually Chinese agents sent to try to destabilize the U.S. Government. So Clint had told her to stay put and do her job. Steve, trusting Clint and bored with his stay in the tower, was happy to step in. "I bet you wish you hadn't put your hand up," stated Clint with a small grin, proving that his thoughts had headed the same direction.

Steve shrugged. "Otherwise I'd still be sitting in the tower, bored, so..." he trailed off as he pulled on his backpack of survival gear. The other man had done the same after pulling on his quiver, and they hurried out of the wounded bird into the dense forest, undifferentiated except by the scars of their violent passage. The facility had been well disguised, certainly, as had their anti-aircraft defenses. They still might have been okay, but the very first shot had blown the tip of one wing right off, severely impairing their mobility. Still, Steve knew that only an experienced pilot could have pulled off the landing Clint had.

The two men surveyed their surroundings for a moment. "West, I think," decided Steve. The facility and their very visible trail were to the north, but there was nothing but a thousand miles of forest to the east. He remembered the closest way out of the tree cover was to the west, so that's the way they would head.

Clint nodded. "We need to get some distance from whatever they're using to block out communications." Without another word, they jogged in that direction, making their way as straight through the dense undergrowth as they could. By unspoken agreement, Clint was in the lead. As the slower of the two, he would set a pace he could keep to prevent them from getting separated. After about 2 miles, Steve suddenly grunted, "Hawkeye! Stop. I hear something." The froze so the super soldier could listen. "There's a bunch of people coming behind us."

Clint nodded, although he couldn't hear anything himself. "Well, that sucks. Time to separate I think. We need one of us to get out of here at least to call the others." He left it unsaid that Cap could also travel far faster without him. It was standard operating procedure, but it left a bad taste in Steve's mouth.

"Okay, fine. I'll keep going this way. You head due south. We'll figure out a rendezvous point once we can use our comms again." He nodded. "Get out of here."

Clint scowled, probably not liking that Cap had chosen the more dangerous route, the direction the pursuers were already going, but he was well familiar with following orders. "Aye, aye, Cap. Don't die." And he disappeared into the trees.

Steve put on what Tony called his "vewy sewious face" and began to run.

Clint had gone what he estimated was about 3 miles south when an indefinable feeling made him stop. Quieting his breathing, he stood upright against a large tree, hoping it would help disguise his location. Moving as little as possible, he slid the backpack to the ground, adjusted his quiver, and eased his bow and an arrow into his hands. As a sniper himself, he knew some people had a sixth sense about when they were being targeted, and he was sure that was what was making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

He took three slow breaths, focusing on the feeling and ignoring the headache that had appeared as they had twirled above the rain forest. He let everything fall away, at the same time becoming hyper aware of any anomalies in the environment around him. There. Amid the constant noises and motion of the forest, there was a spot of total quiet and stillness, like the spot where he himself stood. Taking into account the breeze and angle without conscious thought, and noting even the smallest branch that could potentially deflect a shot, he turned, drew, shot, and pivoted around the tree in one fluid motion.

He knew he'd hit his target even without hearing the grunt of surprise and pain. He shot again in the opposite direction and heard a hiss and the fall of a body. He'd already noted another possible hostile, but in an impossible location for a shot. He crouch-jogged to another tree, took three more shots, then dove to a new position when gunfire opened up. They didn't know exactly where he was, but there were even more hostiles than he'd thought. He cursed his luck. How had they found him, and why did they have such a big team out?

He dove to his right and shot again, spun around yet another tree and loosed another arrow. This time, the gunfire came so close that bark bit into his cheek. They were too close and too many, with too many places to hide. Making a quick decision, he slung his bow over his shoulder, and scaled a massive tree about ten feet up. It was closer to his previous position than he would have liked, but he was out of time. The height gave him the angle to shoot the two more, but as he did, something slammed into his leg.

He took out the one who'd shot him, mentally putting the tally at 10, but as he searched for another target, a loud male voice called out, "Desca ou vamos atirar." He paused. "Nos somos muitos." Clint's Portuguese was more than rusty, but he had the gist. As he considered his options, a second voice said in heavily accented English, "Come down, Avenger. We want you alive, but dead is okay too. We are many and we have guns." He ground his teeth. He hated giving up, but they had him treed like a raccoon.

"Okay, okay," called Clint. "I'm dropping my bow now." He did so, wincing as his prize possession hit the ground. They had better take good care of her. "I'm going to jump down now," he called. "Don't shoot me, okay? I'll put my hands up as soon as I land." He considered grabbing his bow as he landed and shooting as many as he could, but he identified more, and more, and still more people around him. He just couldn't get that many. He'd live to fight another day and hope Cap had had better luck.

The adrenaline had mostly prevented any pain from his bullet wound, but it all rushed in as he landed. His leg buckled completely and he fell on his face, spitting and cursing. For good measure, he told the air around him how much he hated bullets and crashing and dropping his bow and being shot and most of all the entire stupid country of Brazil that is shaped like a drunk gorilla. By the time he finished, he was surrounded by sub-machine gun-toting men who looked like they knew what they were doing, bemused expressions notwithstanding.

They bound his hands and feet with zip ties, then for good measure smacked him on the back of the head with the stock of a gun. It didn't quite knock him out – hard head for the win – but he wasn't about to let them know that. Instead, he obligingly went limp and allowed them to take turns hauling him out of the jungle in a fireman's carry. Eventually, he was dumped into a sort of off-road golf cart and taken for a long and ridiculously bumpy ride. He listened to everything he could, but they mostly spoke Portuguese and his knowledge of Spanish still only allowed him to pick up only about every third word. They were headed for a meeting with the boss, or possibly, to a barbecue.

Clint heard sounds of fighting and went to lift his head. Instead, he was dragged off the cart and onto his feet, and a burly forearm wrapped around his neck. He froze as the barrel of a gun was pressed against his temple. Oh, hell no, they weren't going to make him the damsel.

"Captain America!" called his captor. "We have your compatriot and we will shoot him in the head unless you give yourself up immediately."

"Don't do --" Clint yelled, only to be cut off when the arm tightened. He pulled his hands up and grabbed the arm, twisting his head to the side and letting himself go limp so he could slip through the man's grip. "Don't do it!" he yelled louder, springing to his feet and smashing his head into the chin of the man who had held him. He ducked a blow and swung his bound hands and a second man, clotheslining him. With his feet tied, however, he lost his balance. He rolled and barely avoided a kick to the head, only to hear a familiar voice yell,

"Okay, okay, I surrender. I dropped my shield. Don't shoot him!"

Clint groaned but stopped fighting too. He was hauled back to his feet and he caught a quick glance at Steve kneeling in the middle of a group of men armed with sub-machine guns with his hands on his head. In mid-grumble, he smacked on the head again. Unfortunately, this time it did knock him out.

Clint knew instinctively that he hadn't been unconscious for long. He realized that his arms were now bound behind him, and he was being dragged inside a building.

Wherever they were, it was large. Finally, they stopped in a sparse rectangular room with cement walls and floor. There was a metal chair in the center, and fluorescent lights, but other than that it was bare save for one unwelcome decoration in the far left corner. In an actual cage about 6 feet tall, 4 feet across and 5 feet long, was Steve Rogers. The bars were about three inches in diameter and maybe 2 inches apart. Steve sat – unable to stand completely – leaning against the far side, looking worried but uninjured. Clint was dumped into the chair.

"Why did they hit him after I surrendered?" growled Steve.

"He wasn't behaving very nicely," said a voice that didn't fit in with the men who had brought Clint in. It was cultured, calm and pleasant, and for some reason it made his skin crawl. Then he realized why. The accent was British – but the tone sounded like Loki. It wasn't him, of course, but it was close enough to aggravate Clint. "In any case's awake, but he's just being lazy."

Called out, Clint slowly opened his eyes the rest of the way and lifted his head. "Morning," he said with what he considered his mercenary personality. It was a guise he'd often used, acting as a crude, uneducated lout. Behind his back, he signed 'play along'. He knew Steve had a rudimentary knowledge of ASL, and he hoped it was enough. His hands out of sight of everyone except Cap, he repeated the message twice more, slowly. Out loud, he added, "dipstick."

The smaller of the two men in the room, the one who had spoken, inclined his head slightly toward the meathead with him. The large soldier immediately punched Clint in the jaw hard enough to rock the entire chair.

"I do not tolerate rudeness," said the one who was obviously in charge. Clint noticed that his khaki pants were carefully creased and that his hair was carefully styled. Everything about him was precise cultivated to create an impression of power and wealth.

"I meant Superman over there," Clint indicated Steve. "Why the hell did you give up? Can't you dodge bullets or some crap?"

"You're welcome. Anyway, I'm not the one who crashed the plane," responded Steve bitterly. Outwardly, Clint gave an exaggerated eye roll. Inwardly, he cheered that his friend had apparently gotten his message. At least, he hoped Steve had gotten the message and wasn't sore about that whole hunting him down thing...

The well dressed man cleared his throat almost delicately, and Clint took mental note that he didn't like losing their attention. "Be that as it may," he interjected, what I need from you right now is some information. It is simple enough to get Captain Rogers' entire biography from Wikipedia, but you, well, I need to know your name."

"Let me spell it for you," grinned Clint. "F, U --" he was struck in the left cheekbone before he could get any further.

"Your name," said the man patiently.

"How about your name? Or the name of your goon here?" This gained him three more punches to the face. "Stop pulling your punches," he taunted. Two more hits, this time knocking him and the chair completely over. His hands hit the ground first, and the pain of broken fingers caught him off guard, though he only grunted.

Before he recovered himself and caught his breath, the nameless man stated, "We will return in a few moments. I suggest you reconsider."

As soon as the door shut, Steve hissed, "Hawkeye! Are you alright?"

Clint huffed a small laugh. "Peachy," he said out loud, certain the reprieve was so they could listen to what the men had to say in supposed privacy. Clint could see their shadows under the door.

He extricated himself from the chair and slid on his butt to the wall next to Steve. When he was leaning against the wall right next to his friend, he slid something through the bars. Turning his head, he whispered so quietly that even Steve could hardly hear him. "Small enough to pick a lock, long enough to kill a man if you drive it through his eye. Put the blunt end against the heel of your hand and quick thrust. Too light to throw. They're going to keep coming after me, but I doubt they'll kill me. Don't tell them anything." He scooted left almost to the corner of the room so he wasn't right next to the man he was pretending to despise. Loud enough to be overheard, he said, "Maybe I should charge them when they open the door again. I'd like to take a few of them out before I die."

Steve felt the weapon the assassin had passed to him. It was about 6 inches long, short enough to hide in his hand. One end was very fine and came to a sharp point. The other was a little wider, and rounded. He wondered where Clint had hidden it. "You really are something, you know that?" he asked aloud.

A moment later, the door opened again. There was a pause while those who were outside assessed the situation, and Steve thought it was probably confirmation that someone had been listening in. They must have been making sure Clint was not actually going to charge at them. After a long second, two new men entered, followed by the original two. Like the one who had done the hitting, the two new arrivals were dressed like soldiers, in forest-colored fatigues, but were not carrying weapons. Either they were confident that their numbers were sufficient to keep Clint under control, or they didn't want to put any weapons within his reach.

The leader waited until the door was closed by a goon who stayed outside, then leaned casually against the wall as if they were going to discuss breakfast choices. "We are back, as I told you we would be. You see, I always keep my word, Hawkeye." He paused to see if the word had any impact, but Clint just smirked at him. "I will continue to ask questions. If neither of you answer, or if I believe you are lying, we will make things unpleasant. Alternatively, answering quickly and completely will be rewarded." He lifted his eyes to Steve. "Nobody has to be a martyr here. I am highly interested in working with one or both of you, and I abhor violence and bloodshed."

Clint glared at him, then at Steve from his spot on the floor. "We're not talking. Neither of us."

"Very well. Get him on his feet."

Steve watched in growing horror as the well-dressed man asked questions and Clint taunted him and got hit. For some reason, he had nicknamed the man hitting him Tinkerbell, and rest Larry, Moe, and Curly. He laughed at them when they got angry and took hit after hit after hit. Twice, Steve grabbed the bars to yell at them to stop, and both times Clint had given him the okay sign behind his back. Honestly, Steve wasn't sure how much either of them could take. Clint was now basically hanging in the arms of the men holding him, blood dripping from his eyebrow, and he wasn't saying much of anything any more. The inside of Steve's cheek was raw and bloody from biting it. Then he saw it – with his uninjured left hand, Clint was signing L-I-E.

"Stop! Just stop hitting him. I'll tell you what you need to know."

"That...took a lot longer than I expected," admitted the man in khakis. "You must hate him a great deal."

Steve couldn't hide his wince, even though he was supposed to pretend to hate Clint. "His name is Curt. Curt Davis. He's an assassin for hire who used the Battle of New York to attach himself to SHIELD. Now they'll apparently take anyone." Knowing he was no actor, he let his real emotions about the betrayal of so many at SHIELD color his tone.

"Ah, I see," the interrogator was smug. "That must grate on a man like yourself. Who else have they let in lately, so to speak?"

"Shut it, Rogers," grunted Clint, causing his tormentor to his him in the stomach again.

Steve glanced at his friend, but readily answered, "Well, Stark is out, the aliens left, and the woman was killed in the aftermath of New York, but we have a new so-called team." He sighed. "Joe Medwick, Carl Doyle, Lee Grissom, and the leader is now Lee Durocher. I'm trying to stay out of it, so I don't know anyone else's names."

"Thank you, Captain Rogers." As promised, you will be rewarded for your assistance. It grows late, but in the morning, we will allow you some exercise and share a nice breakfast. I will have many more questions then." He waved his hand, and the men holding Clint dropped him unceremoniously on his face.

"Ow," was Clint's only, dry response.

"Wait!" called Steve as they turned to go. "He needs medical care!"

"He hasn't earned it," stated the other. "However..." He waved his hand again, and one of them men cut the zipties between Clint's feet. With that, all four of the captors left.

"Traitor," said Clint, but without heat. In fact, he turned his face toward Steve and smiled. Steve must not have kept his feelings off of his face, because Clint said, "Oh, c'mon, it's not that bad. My second wife did worse when I came home with lipstick on my collar." Under his breath, he said, "I'm fine, Steve. Really. How about if we wait a couple of hours and get the hell out of here?"

Steve took one more look at Clint's battered face, took a deep breath, and stuffed all of his feelings in the tight box inside. Fortunately, he had plenty of experience. Quietly, the two discussed their plans. In several hours, if they were still undisturbed, Steve would rip out one of the bars of his cage. As large as they were, the welds at the top and bottom weren't great, and he was determined he could get at least two of them free. He would use one to break out the small, frosted glass window, then to bar the door. Once they were outside, they'd have to play it by ear.

That decided, Clint gave a big sigh. "You know, Rogers," he said aloud, "these accommodations are great. In fact, this is a four-star, no five-star floor. I think I'll just take a bit of a nap." Steve had to smile. They couldn't see any listening devices in the room, and no shadows under the door, but Clint had stayed in character just in case.

To his surprise, the archer actually did fall asleep, and Steve was reminded of his time on the battlefield. Soldiers quickly learned to sleep anywhere and everywhere, and maybe assassins were the same way. For himself, sleep didn't come. He didn't need a lot of sleep, and found it hard to get anyway. And just now, he was feeling emotionally bruised enough. Instead of sleeping, he picked one bar and began to push and pull, push and pull, silently weakening it and counting the seconds.

When Steve judged 2-3 hours had passed, he reluctantly woke Clint by hissing his name. Clint came awake immediately and whispered, "Time to rock and roll then?"

As Steve wrenched on the first bar he'd been working loose, Clint rolled on his side and painfully worked his feet through his bound hands. He backed himself up against the wall, tightened the zip tie as much as he could, and took a deep breath, aware this next step was going to suck with his broken fingers. Timing it with Steve pulling out the second bar with a screech, he slammed his wrists now on his upraised knee. This broke the ties but also very nearly made him black out.

By the time he had caught his breath again, Steve had broken out the window and bent the bars into an X across the door. He was looking down at Clint with a worried expression. No more slacking, Barton, Clint told himself, and allowed his friend to pull him to his feet. Steve made a step with his hands, and Clint didn't even argue, admitting if only to himself, that he probably couldn't make the jump to the window.

Even with help, pulling himself up with one good hand and trying not to rest on his ribs sucked big time. He pulled his torso out of the window and finagled himself around so he went out feet first. Even rolling out of his landing had him lying on the ground panting in pain. He was embarrassed to find Steve looking so concerned again, and leveraged himself to his feet. He had temporarily forgotten his bullet wound and it was reminding him now.

"I need a better look at this compound," he whispered to Steve. "Can you help me onto the roof?" He knew from Steve's eyebrows that the answer would be no.

"I'll go," said Steve, and jumped up and pulled himself onto the roof before Clint could even reply. Muttering, Clint moved into the shadows and took stock of the area. While he was pleased that there still was no sign that they'd been missed, it wouldn't last.

They appeared to be at the back of the building, which was a large, industrial-style one-story building. The majority of the building was to Clint's left as he rested against it. There were various small outbuildings, and the forest had been cleared for maybe 50 meters around it. He could see guards at the perimeter of the forest, but not many of them. There were also four guards around one of the smallest outbuildings, directly to Clint's right.

A guard strolled around the corner just 3 meters away, and Clint held his breath. The man looked more bored than alert, so as he went to walk by, Clint grabbed his gun, pulled it straight down, and elbowed him hard in the face. When he instinctively grabbed his nose, Clint gave a hard, directed chop to the back of his neck and the man dropped like a rock, leaving Clint grinning and holding a gun.

Steve suddenly landed next to him. "They had a sniper for each direction, but not any more. I don't think I was noticed."

Clint looked at the precision sniper rifle Steve had, then back at his plain sub-machine gun. "Trade me," he insisted. Steve did so without question. "You notice that only one outbuilding has its own guards?"

"Yes, I was thinking we should take a look." Steve glanced that way. "I'll take out the guards, then you head over." He jogged off and Clint frowned.

"He's like the freaking Energizer Bunny!" Seeing his rifle had a silencer, he grinned, lifted it, and took out all of the guards before Steve even got to them. "Heh." That made him feel a little better, even as he jogged his complaining body across the open area. He smirked at Steve when the latter looked up from pulling the bodies out of sight of the main building. When he walked into the building himself, though, he forgot everything else. "Jackpot!" he whispered. The walls pegs with weapons on them. Most of the ground space was taken up by a bunch of the all-terrain gulf carts and crates that contained ammunition and more weapons.

Steve watched, amused, as Clint caressed one of the largest guns. "Grenade launcher, where have you been all of my life?"

In very short order, they had formulated a plan. They emptied all of the grenade launchers of their projectiles and loaded them into two of the carts. Clint assured Steve that they weren't armed and wouldn't go off just from being dropped or jostled, but the latter was still extremely careful. Clint took the last loaded launcher and headed for the forest behind the building. He would stay in the trees out of sight and make his way around 45 degrees until he was directly in line with the main building. Steve started up all of the carts and dumped out all of the ammunition in big piles in the middle of the building. He set the carts to go out in random directions, except for the two that were loaded. These he aimed at two different spots along the main building. Then he dashed out of the building and followed the path Clint had taken.

Clint was in place – barely – by the time the carts began to drive out of the outbuilding. He waited until the two special ones bumped up against the main building, then he shot each with the grenade launcher, then took aim at the outbuilding. As much as he wanted to stay and admire the resulting explosions, he dropped his newest toy and took off into the forest as fast as he could.

It felt like about two seconds until Steve caught up to him. He felt like a turtle and he knew the adrenaline was going to wear off fast. "Look Steve," he panted as soon as the compound was out of sight, "you have to GO. Our best chance is getting a message out as soon as possible. You know we don't have the resources we did as SHIELD. Somebody is going to have to come a long, long ways to pick us up. You can't afford to wait for me."

"Not happening," said Steve with finality.

"Look --"

"No."

"Steve!"

"NO!" Steve turned toward Clint. "I couldn't stop what they did to you in there, but no way am I leaving you behind for them to catch again. Case closed. Don't ask again."

Clint scowled, "That's just the job. That's not on you! You did what you needed to so you'd be healthy enough to run when we got the chance. We got our chance. Go ahead and make it count!"

Steve's voice dropped. "Stop wasting your energy on talking and go faster." Clint scowled and for the next half mile, Steve pretended that he couldn't hear every single complaint Clint made about him.

Clint could feel himself flagging. While his gunshot wound wasn't deep – half an inch and it would have missed him completely – it had continued to bleed. But it didn't hurt any more, and he knew that wasn't good.

"Steve – "

"Don't ask me again, Clint. Please."

Clint leaned against a tree and gathered himself, but when he started again, he almost fell. Steve didn't comment, just pulled one of Clint's arms over his broad shoulders and continued walking. Clint tried to continue, he really did. "I can't, Steve. I can't go any more."

"Yes, you can," Steve's voice left no room for doubt. "Unless you want me to carry you?"

"Hell, no," said Clint, but he knew if he wouldn't go much further. His vision turned into tunnel vision and he began to go numb. His entire focus was on taking steps. One more step. One more. One more. He thought Steve might be talking, but he couldn't focus enough to be sure. Have to walk. Get away. Don't want Steve caught. He stumbled for maybe the millionth time, and this time instead of being caught, he was turned and lowered to his back on the ground.

Steve's face was in front of his, and he focused hard on the super soldier's words. "Clint, please tell me. Where are you hurt? This seems like more than the beating you took."

"Ummm...my leg is shot," mumbled Clint. "I mean, I got shot."

Uh-oh. Those eyebrows were back. "Where?" Clint gestured vaguely at his right leg.

"My boot."

"You got shot in your boot?" Steve was confused.

"Nah, they missed a gun in my boot if you need to cut my pants."

Steve wondered in passing just how many weapons Clint had been carrying. He found the knife and sliced the pants easily; apparently assassins keep their weapons sharp. The pants, to his dismay, were soaked in blood. It had even gotten into Clint's boot. "Oh, Clint," he sighed. "You should have told me!"

"Couldn't have done anything 'bout it," argued Clint. Steve pulled off his top shirt, and for some reason, this made Clint giggle. Giggling made him clutch his ribs, but he only giggled more. At least, until Steve tied it around the injury and pulled it tight. The giggle turned into a pained groan.

"I'm sorry, Clint. I have to get the bleeding stopped. Where else are you hurt?"

"Just ribs. And face," admitted Clint. He eyelids started to droop.

"No, no, no sleeping yet. Remember you got to sleep on that five-star floor earlier."

"Mm-hm," was all he responded.

Steve wracked his brain to find something to talk about. "Tell me about that weapon you gave me. Where did you have that? And where did you learn about it?"

"From Tasha o' course. She likes to wear 'em in her hair." Clint's words weren't terribly clear, but at least his eyes were open. "If she wears the dull side out people think they're harmless."

"But where were yours?"

"My waistband has two in the front and two in the back, and there's little holes I can work 'em out of. Nobody ever finds 'em and it doesn't matter if m' hands are tied in the front or back o' me." He smirked a little. The smile faded. "This shouldn't have happened."

"I know, man. I --"

"No, none of it should have happened. They were ready for us with those anti-aircraft guns, and they found us way too fast in the woods. I think they could track our comms. They could block 'em too. And they had that cage." He trailed off.

"You think we were set up?"

"Yeah, I do. I think they wanted Avengers, but didn't know who they'd get." Clint gave two slow blinks and forced his eyes back open. "Can you imagine if they got Banner? Or Thor?" This made him giggle again. "They wouldnta caught us either, 'cept --"

"Except you were injured in the crash and didn't tell me," Steve finished. Clint grunted but didn't deny it.

"Lil bit. Jes' a concussion mebbe."

Clint's eyelids started to droop again and he blinked hard. "Hey, Steve, c'n you do something f'r me?"

"Of course, Clint. Whatever you need."

"I'm about to pass out. While I'm out, c'd you straighten out my fingers so they don' heal crooked?" He held up the offending hand.

Steve swallowed. "Yeah, yeah I will."

It was at least 3 hours before Clint opened his eyes again, when Steve checked the bandage on his leg.

Every time he looked at it more and more blood soaked the shirt and the pantleg around it, no matter how tightly he tied it.

Even in the dark, he could see that Clint's eyes were glassy and he swallowed against the helplessness that rocked him. "Good morning. Well, it will be morning soon."

Clint's eyes slipped around, then slowly sharpened. "Nice crop top." His smirk was a shadow of normal, but Steve still appreciated it.

He fingered the bottom of his undershirt, which he'd cut off to make a binding for the other man's fingers. "I'm going for a new look."

"Clint." Steve licked his lips. Against his will, his eyes traced Clint's injured face, then drifted to his hand, then his leg. He'd been counting the hours, measuring how pale his friend was getting, and he knew the math just didn't work out. Their expected check in time was not until 6 am and it would take maybe 3 hours for a team to get to their location after that. The rate of blood loss… Steve tried again.

"Clint, I'm sorry –" all of the words lodged in his throat. I'm sorry that I left you after the crash. That I couldn't stop you from getting hurt. That I can't stop the bleeding. That I can't get help here faster. That your wife and kids will never see you again. His I'm sorries filled him until he couldn't say any of them.

"It's okay, Cap." Clint managed to smile again. "None of anythin's your fault, ya know? We try to make a difference. We do our best. And sometimes, you do everything right an' lose anyway. 's part of the job. Part of life."

Steve's eyes filled with unwelcome tears. He'd learned that lesson before. He'd been in a war and seen all of the ugliness and death and pain. Yet, he could never really accept it then, and he couldn't accept it now either.

"An' who knows? I may s'prise you yet." Clint lifted his hand. "'f not," he actually shrugged, "'sbeen an honor." Steve gently shook the broken hand. "And if I cack, don' let Tony talk at my funeral." With a tiny laugh, he drifted off.

Steve set Clint's hand on his chest and, as light began to bleed into the sky, watched his chest rise and fall. If he could, he would count the heartbeats. The breaths were so slow now, Clint's skin so gray. Then, Steve heard a helicopter. And a voice. Not only was it speaking in English, it was a voice he knew!

"Captain America, Hawkeye, if you can hear me please indicate your location."

The rush of emotions literally made Steve dizzy as he jumped to his feet. He looked around frantically for some way to signal his location. Grabbing the gun he'd carried from the compound, he began to fire it straight up.

He stopped as the helicopter came into view and a black line dropped from it, with a familiar form quickly sliding down it. "Natasha! Clint needs evac immediately!" The black-clad woman sprang into action without even scolding him for dropping their codenames.

"Tony, we need medical evac right now," she called into her comm. Jumping to Clint's side, she pulled off one glove and touched two fingers to his neck. "Injuries?" she demanded without looking at Steve.

"Gunshot wound to right thigh." Before he could elaborate, there was a flash of red and gold and Tony flew up.

"Evac now," snapped Widow. Without a word, Tony scooped up the archer and disappeared and Steve leaned back against a tree, suddenly exhausted.

"You hurt, too, Steve?" asked Natasha.

Steve swallowed and shook his head. "No, they didn't touch me."

She must have heard something in his voice, because she looked him straight in the face before answering. "Steve, I wasn't here and I don't know exactly what happened, but I know for a fact that you would never hide behind someone or let them take a hit if you could stop it. I also know Barton would rather it be him than you." She took his arm and shook him a little. "AND I know that Barton has survived things nobody thought he would. Let's get to the jet and get an update."

Steve nodded. They climbed the line and squeezed into the little helicopter and in no time were jogging into the jet. Clint was getting blood and fluids and the medics were too busy to reassure the other Avengers. Steve waved off medical attention for himself despite Nat's glare, and sat thinking about how much he missed Bruce's calming presence. He could Nat's eye and could tell she was thinking the same thing. The ride to the hospital was quiet and tense, and even Tony couldn't lighten the mood.

breakbreakbreakbreakbreak

Clint felt like there were weights on his eyelids. He could hear, but everything was muffled, and as hard as he struggled, he could not seem to open his eyes. Why? He thought. I am in a hospital, but why?

Memories drifted by, but they were ephemeral and he couldn't grasp them. A voice spoke to him and he knew it, but he couldn't grasp the words either. He wanted to wake up, but then knew nothing.

Time passed but didn't mean anything. Then Clint heard a new voice. He should know her, he thought. Her voice soothed him. He thought she wanted him to wake, but he was too warm and comfortable. He slept on.

Why were his eyelids so heavy? He wanted to see. Clint felt himself frown, and a voice said, "That's it. Wake up now. You can do it."

He wasn't sure his mouth would work, but he was glad to finally have a connection with more than just the dark, so he tried. "S'eve?"

He heard movement, then the voice said, "Yes, that's right. If you open your eyes, I can give you something to drink."

He tried again, and again. And finally he lifted his eyelids. It was so bright, but the light quickly dimmed and he blinked a few times. There. Steve was there, holding up a straw. He took a drink and it was heaven. He sighed and cleared his throat. Took a look around.

"I was…shot?"

"Yup, in the leg. Do you remember crashing in Brazil?"

Clint squinted and thought. He was aware that everything was taking him extra long, but he couldn't seem to speed up his brain. "Oh, yeah. Yeah. We blew stuff up." Steve chuckled a little, though it sounded forced. Clint looked more closely at him and realized there were dark circles under the other man's eyes and his clothes were unusually wrinkled. Even his hair was out of place. "You look like crap."

This time Steve's laugh was more genuine. "You're lucky you don't have a mirror."

Clint smirked. His quick assessment of himself showed him two fingers wrapped and his torso had a stiffness that told him he had broken ribs. His right thigh was bandaged too, but he didn't feel so bad.

"You should see the other guy."

"Yeah…remember how nobody came after us? That big explosion killed the other guy. And you were right. We were set up – they were waiting for us. That's why Fury sent Tony and Natasha to find us. Otherwise –" he broke off and ran a hand through his hair, standing it even more on end."

"How long was I out?" Clint asked, uncomfortable.

"Five days. You almost died of blood loss." Steve leaned forward and leaned his forearms on his thighs.

"I'm sorry –"

"Don't be sorry for anything," interrupted Clint. "You got me out of there. Next time I'll haul you out of somewhere. Just don't make it weird. Deal?"

Steve's face finally relaxed. "Deal?"

"Oh, and Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Who's Curt Davis?" Unfortunately, he was asleep again before he heard the answer.

Note: Curt Davis and the other names Steve used were all members of the 1941 Dodgers.


End file.
